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Title: Lady Rosamond's book : or, Dawnings of light
Author: Guernsey, Lucy Ellen
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Lady Rosamond's book : or, Dawnings of light" ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: She climbed over the wall by the beehives.
The gardener had left his ladder close by.]
_The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles._
_[Year 1529]_
_Lady Rosamond's Book;_
DAWNINGS OF LIGHT.
BY
_LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY_
_AUTHOR OF_
_"LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS;" "WINIFRED."_
NEW EDITION.
LONDON:
JOHN F. SHAW & CO.
48 Paternoster Row, E.C.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. St. Swithin's Day, in the year of Grace, 1529.
II.
III. Feast of St. Agnes, April 20.
IV. Feast of St. Catherine, April 29.
V. Eve of St. John, May 5th.
VI. May 15th.
VII. St. John Baptist's Day, June 24.
VIII.
IX. July 14.
X. St. Mary Magdalene, July 21.
XI. August 1.
XII. August 2.
XIII. August 12, Feast of St. Clare.
XIV. August 14.
XV. August 25.
XVI. St. Michael's Eve, Sept. 28.
XVII. October 28.
XVIII. All Saints' Day, Nov. 2.
XIX. Nov. 4.
XX. Nov. 8th.
XXI. Corby End, April 20, 1530.
XXII. April 23.
XXIII.
XXIV. April 25, Sunday.
XXV. April 30.
XXVI. May 12.
XXVII. June 1.
XXVIII.
XXIX. June 20.
XXX. June 30.
XXXI. June 30.
XXXII. July 20, Tremador, in Cornwall.
XXXIII. July 30.
XXXIV. Aug. 3.
XXXV. Aug. 5.
XXXVI. Aug. 18.
XXXVII. Aug. 20.
XXXVIII. Aug. 30—the day after.
XXXIX. Coombe Ashton, Sept. 10.
XL. Sept. 12.
XLI. St. Ethelburga's Shrine, Sept. 30.
XLII. Tremador, All Saints' Day, Nov. 1.
XLIII. Stanton Court, May 12, 1590.
[Illustration]
THE PREAMBLE.
_Stanton Court, August 21._
I FOUND the original of this book (1710) in my father's library.
Remembering well, when I was a child, how my dear and honored mother
used to value it, and how she used sometimes to read to us young ones
little bits therefrom, I was led to peruse it myself; and since that
time I have amused my leisure hours by making a fair copy of the
chronicle (for such it really is) as a present to my dear child and
charge, the Lady Lucy Stanton.
Amy Rosamond Stanton, spoken of at the end of the book, was my
grandmother, my father's mother. She was in many respects a peculiar
person, very beautiful and accomplished, but uncommonly retiring
and serious in her tastes, given to study and solitary meditation,
specially after the death of her husband. My mother ever loved her
as an own mother, and we have still her portrait. It represents a
beautiful woman indeed, but so absolutely fair and colorless as to seem
almost unreal.
There is a tradition in the family that this wonderful fairness is
derived from a certain personage called "The Fair Dame of Stanton,"
whom one of the Lords of Stanton married in foreign parts. The story
goes that this fair dame was one of those strange creatures, neither
quite spiritual nor yet wholly human, a kind of Melusina or Tiphane Le
Fee, and that she vanished at last in some strange fashion, leaving two
children. The common people, and some who should be above such notions,
believe that the Fair Dame doth sometimes return in the person of one
of her descendants, and that such a return always bodes woe to the
family. But this is all nonsense. So much is true that the lady came
from foreign parts, and that she was possessed of this curious fair
beauty, which now and then reappears in the person of some descendant
of hers, as in the case of my grandame. She had some peculiarities of
religious belief, probably inherited from her Albigensian ancestors,
and 'tis certain that she possessed a copy of Holy Scripture as done
into English by Wickliffe. This book was found concealed in the
apartment known as the Fair Dame's bower, and is still preserved in our
library.
My mother also wrote a chronicle of her young days, which is one of
my most precious possessions. I would fain have my Lucy do the same,
but she is a true Stanton, and cares little for books, being a born
housewife. Her father has married a second time, and has a son, so that
Lucy is no longer the sole hope of the race. She gets on well with her
stepmother, who is an amiable young lady, not so many years her senior
as I could wish, but still she loves best to pass her time here with
me, in this home of my youth, which my Lord has most kindly fitted up
and given me for my life. I have a widowed daughter, who lives with me,
and plenty of grandchildren to visit me, so that I am never lonely. But
I meant not to write the history of my own life, but only to give an
account of this book.
_DEBORAH CORBET._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK._
Edmund Andrews, for sea fisshe . . . . . . . £0. ivs. xd.
John Earle, for spice. . . . . . . . . . . . ixs. ixd.
Thomas Smith, dried ling . . . . . . . . . . vs. iiiid.
Mistress Ashe, a webbe of white hollands . . xivs.
John Earle, spices, dates and almond . . . . £0. is. xd.
Mistress Ashe, needles, silk and thread. . . viiis.
Mistress Ashe, a webbe of fine diaper. . . . xls. ixd.
CHAPTER I.
I SUPPOSE I had better begin by telling how I came by this book, though
that is not the beginning either, but perhaps it will do as well as
any other to start from. Dear Mother says I am to write a chronicle of
my life, as it seems some ladies of our family have done before me. So
here I begin by first putting the date:
_St. Swithin's Day, in the year of Grace, 1529._
Dear Mother Superior was in the library this morning, looking at the
work I have been helping Sister Gertrude to finish, of putting the
books in order, and writing out a fair list of them. Sister Gertrude
cannot write on account of her eyes, and she does not know Latin, and
as I do, and can write a fair hand, I was able to help her, which
pleased us both well.
[I do shrewdly suspect there was another hindrance more vital than the
dear Sister's eyes, but I would not have hinted such a thing for the
world. If she did not know writing, she knew many another thing better
worth knowing.] *
Well, Mother Superior did commend our diligence, and gave Sister
Gertrude much praise, which she in turn transferred to me, at which
Sister Catherine, who must be on hand as usual, exclaimed:
"What holy humility Sister Gertrude shows!"
"Nay, I thought not of humility, but only of justice, and giving the
child her due," answered Sister Gertrude.
"I fear 'twill be long before our dear young Rosamond emulates your
example," continued Sister Catherine, as if Sister Gertrude had not
spoken. "I fear her gifts are but a snare to her in that respect. Dear
Rosamond, remember nothing was so dear to St. Frances as humility."
* The sentences in brackets were writ on the margin of Lady
Rosamond's book, but in transcribing I have put them in the body of
the work. Most of them seem to have been added at a later date.—D. C.
"Sister Catherine, is not your charge in the wardrobe at this hour?"
asked Mother Superior (methought somewhat dryly). Sister Catherine
retired without a word, but I can't say she looked very humble. If she
were not a devoted religious, I should say she looked ready to bite.
"You have made a good piece of work between you, my children," said
Mother; "and now we are in order, we must keep in order. 'Tis not often
that a lady's house possesses so many books as ours, and we have, I
fear, hardly prized them as we ought. When Rosamond comes to be abbess,
she will make our poor house a seminary of learning."
"What have you got there, child?"
"'Tis a great book of blank paper, dear Mother," said I, showing this
book to her. "It has been begun as an accompt, as I think, and then as
a receipt, but it is mostly empty."
"And you would like to fill it?" said Mother, smiling: "Well, well, you
have been a good maid, and deserve a reward. You shall have the book,
and write a chronicle of your life therein, as did your great grandame
of hers. You are a true Corbet, and 'Corbys will have quills,' is an
old saying of your house."
I was well pleased, for I do love to write; but what can I say about
my own life, only the little things which happen every day, and much
the same to every one. To be sure, in the lives of saints, as well as
in the history books, I do love best to read about the common things,
even such as what they ate, and how they slept, and so on. It seems to
bring them nearer to one. Not that I shall ever be a saint, I am sure.
Sister Catherine was right there. I should be more likely to make a
good housewife. Sometimes I fear I have no vocation at all, though I
have, as it were, grown up with a veil on my face. Richard Stanton used
to say I should never make a nun.
Now I am going to begin my life. My name is Rosamond Corbet, and I was
born in Devonshire. My father is a worshipful knight, Stephen Corbet by
name, and my mother Alice Stanton, a niece of my Lord Stanton, at the
great house. The Corbets are the elder family, having lived at Fresh
Water long before the Stantons, who only came in with the Conqueror.
The name used to be writ Corby, and the common folk call it so to this
day. The corby, or hooded crow, is the cognizance of our house, and
this bird, commonly of evil omen, is said to be lucky to our race. 'Tis
not a nice bird, and I could wish we had an eagle or a falcon to our
crests; but after all they are alike birds of prey. They say we are not
Saxon, but British in descent, and that is how we come by our black
hair and eyes. The Stantons, who should, methinks, be dark, are all
fair.
I was the youngest of my family. My mother was a great friend of
the Lady Margaret Vernon, our dear Mother Superior. It was thought
at one time she had herself a strong vocation, but she met with Sir
Stephen, and there was an end of that. So to make amends, I suppose,
she promised her second girl to this house, or her first, if she had
but one. So I, being the second maid, the lot fell on me, and I have
spent at least half my time here since I was five years old. I like it
well enough too, though I confess I am now and then glad to get back
home and run about the woods' and sands, and play with the babes in
the cottages. I do love children, specially young children. I think my
vocation will be to teaching, or else to the pantry and pastry-room.
Once I told Sister Gertrude so, and she said it reminded her of her
younger brother, who when asked what he would do when he was grown up,
answered that he would be a bishop, or else a fisherman, like old Will
Lee.
Once I stayed at home six years. It was then I learned to write and to
construe Latin, from my brother's tutor, Master Ellenwood. I was always
a great pet of his, and when he offered to teach me Latin, my father
made no objection, saying that a little learning would do me no harm,
and might sometime stand me in good stead.
That was a happy time. We three young ones and Dick Stanton studied
together all the morning, and played together all the afternoon, save
for the two hours or so of needlework, and the like, which my mother
exacted from us girls. I may say without vanity that brother Henry
and I were the best scholars. Alice was passable, but poor Dick was
always in disgrace. In all the manly exercises, such as riding the
great horse, shooting with both long and cross-bow, sword play, and so
on, however, Dick was far beyond any of the other lads. So he was in
managing a horse, a dog, or a hawk, and 'twas wonderful how all dumb
creatures loved him. Now he is a squire in France, with my Lord his
uncle, and I am here. I don't suppose I shall ever see him again in
this world.
My mother was alive then. She was a most notable lady, always very
still and quiet, but attending well to the ways of her household, and
keeping all in their places, not by any assumption of greatness, but
by the dignity and kindness of her own manners. She was a most kind
mother, but not so fond as some, at least to me. It used to trouble
me sometimes, till one day, by chance, I found out the reason, by
overhearing some words spoken between her and an old gentlewoman, a
kinswoman of hers, who stayed some time with her.
"Methinks Rosamond is no favorite," said my old lady. "And yet 'tis
a good, docile little maid, more to my mind than Alice, with all her
beauty."
"You are right, kinswoman," replied my mother; "but he who has the
keeping of another's treasure, if he be wise, does not suffer himself
to be overmuch looking upon or handling, the same. Rosamond is not
mine. She is given to the Church, and I dare not give my mother's heart
its way with her, lest my natural affections should rise up against my
Lord's demands."
[I remember my own heart rather rose against this doctrine, even then.
It seemed to me that our Lord cared for His own mother even on the
cross. I knew that much, though I had never seen the Scriptures at
that time, and I could not see why He should have given people natural
affections only to be trampled on. Now I know that St. Paul places them
who are without natural affection in no flattering category.]
When I showed this that I have written to dear mother, she said I must
run my pen through what I wrote about Sister Catherine.* She said
we must concern ourselves with our own faults and not with those of
others. But somehow our own faults and other people's will get mixed
together.
* So she did, but not so that I could not read it, and I judged
best to write it out with the rest.—D. C.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
TO go on with my own life. One year ago my dear mother died, leaving
us young ones to comfort my father, who sorely needed comfort, for he
and mother were all in all to each other. Alice, who is three years
older than I am, was betrothed to Sir John Fulton's eldest son, and
by mother's special desire the wedding was hastened that she might
have the pleasure of seeing, as she said, both her daughters settled
in life. I think she would have liked me to make my profession also,
though she would have grieved to part with me, but both my father and
our good parish priest were against it, and even Mother Superior did
not favor the notion. They all said I was far too young to know mine
own mind, and that I ought not to take the irrevocable vows till I was
eighteen at the least. So mother gave way.
Her death followed my sister's marriage so quickly, that the flowers I
had gathered for her that day were not fairly withered when I plucked
rosemary and rue to lay on her winding sheet. She passed sitting in her
chair, and so quickly, that there was no time for the last sacraments:
for we had not thought her in any imminent danger, though we all knew
she must die soon. My father has spent much money in masses, and talks
of building a chantry, with endowment for a priest to sing for her
soul. The thought of my dear mother in purgatory ought to make me a
saint, if nothing else did.
Father clung to me very closely, and could hardly bear me out of his
sight after mother died, and yet he himself hurried my return to this
place. It seemed hard that I could not stay and comfort him, Alice
being away; but when I hinted at it, he reproved me, even sternly.
"Child, child! Would you make matters worse than they are now, by
taking back what your mother gave? What is my comfort for a few days or
years? Go—go, and pray for your mother's soul!"
What could I say but that I would go? Besides, it really is no great
hardship. I love this house, and the Sisters, and they are all very
good to me; even Sister Catherine means to be, I am sure, only she
is so very strict. She says we are a shame to our order—we are
Bernardines—and that if St. Francis were to come to earth again, he
would not own us. Sister Catherine says the very fact of Amice and
myself being in the house, as we are not novices, nor yet regular
postulants, shows how far we have degenerated, and that it is enough
to bring down a judgment on us. She talks about going to London and
joining a house of Poor Clares, notable for the extreme strictness of
their rule. I wish she would, I am sure.
I don't think myself that we are very strict—not nearly so much so as
St. Clare was when she was on earth. Still we observe the canonical
hours carefully, at least the nuns do, for Mother will not let us young
ones be called up at night—and we do a great deal for the poor. Some
half dozen families in the village here are clothed and fed by our
community almost entirely. That same Roger Smith has help all the time,
and yet he will not bring us so much as an eel without having the full
price for it.
There are twenty professed nuns in this house, besides the Superior,
Margaret Vernon, the Sacristine, Mother Agnes, Mother Gertrude, who
has the principal charge of the novices and of us young ones, and
Sister Catherine, whose charge is the wardrobe and linen-room and whose
business is everyones but her own. Then there are three novices, Anne,
Clara, and Frances, and Amice and myself, who for fault of a better
name, are called pupils.
Amice Crocker is an orphan girl, niece to Mother Gertrude, and has no
home but this. She is very devout, and seems to have a real vocation.
She is always reading lives of the Saints, and trying to imitate their
example, but her imitations do not always work very well. For instance,
the other day Mother Gertrude sent her to the wardrobe to bring down
some garments which were wanted in a hurry for a poor woman. She was
gone fully half an hour, and at the last I was sent to look for her. I
found her coming down very slowly; indeed she was pausing a minute or
more on every stair.
"Amice, what makes you so slow?" I exclaimed, rather vexed. "Don't you
know Mother is waiting?"
She did not answer me, but continued coming down a step and stopping,
till Mother Gertrude herself came to see what was the matter, just as
she reached the bottom.
"What ails the child?" said Mother, rather sharply. "The man would wait
no longer, and now the poor woman must go without her cloak."
"I am very sorry!" answered Amice, meekly. "I was trying to emulate the
example of that blessed young Saint, Sister Catherine was reading of
yesterday; who, when he went up-stairs, always paused to say a prayer
on every step."
I saw Mother's eyes twinkle, and the corners of her mouth twitch.
"Well, well, I wont scold you, child, but remember the next time you
are sent on an errand that your business is to do the errand, and try
rather to follow the example of St. Anthony, and be in two places at
once."
I saw Amice was mortified. When we went away together she was silent
a little, and I could see she was trying to keep back her tears.
Presently she said:
"Rosamond, I think it is very hard to follow the example of the Saints.
There are so many of them, and they are so very different."
"Perhaps it would be well to pick out one, and keep him for a model,"
said I.
"But how?" asked Amice. "Now, this same saint, for instance. When he
was only five years old, he wanted a friar's habit, and he cried till
he got it."
"He would have cried a long time if he had my mother to deal with!"
said I. "Or rather, I think his crying would have been cut short rather
suddenly."
"Just so!" said Amice. "We were taught to obey our parents in all
things. Then, again, when he was eight years old, he saw his mother
in a red dress, and reproved her severely, telling her that the color
would drag her down to the flames of hell. Now I think (and I can't
help thinking), that Sister Catherine's way of snubbing and putting
down poor Sister Bridget (though she does say silly things, to be
sure), is worse than wearing a red gown: but suppose I should reprove
her, what do you think would happen?"
"I can guess!" said I, and we both laughed; but Amice looked very sober
again, directly.
"So you see, Rosamond, I don't know what to do, because whatever Saint
you choose for a model, you seem to run against somebody. And that
makes me say I wish there were not so many."
"If we knew all about our Lady, or one of the Holy Apostles," said I,
doubtfully; "or suppose you should take St. Clare, or St. Agnes."
"Well, St. Clare did not obey her parents either; she ran away from her
father's house at midnight, and went to St. Frances!"
"Yes, but that was because she had such a high vocation," I answered,
"and her parents opposed her. I suppose that is different. Anyhow,
Amice, we can do as we are told, and that is always a comfort. Perhaps
it is the safest way for girls like us."
"If we had our Lord's life, that would be the best of all," continued
Amice, not paying much attention to my words: "but then, of course, we
never could hope to follow that, when we cannot even reach the example
of Saint Francis and Saint Clare. Anyhow, I wish I could read it for
once—all of it."
"Why, Amice, how can you say such a thing?" said I, rather sharply, I
am afraid. "Don't you know what Father Fabian said in his sermon—that
it was the reading of the Scriptures by unlearned men which made all
the heresies and schisms which have come up in Germany and the Low
Countries?"
Amice looked so distressed that I was sorry for my words directly.
"I am sure I don't want to be a heretic, or anything else that is
wrong!" said she, with tears in her eyes. "I would like to please
everybody, but somehow I am always going wrong and making mistakes, as
I did to-day. I keep seeing that poor woman going over the moors in the
cold wind, without any cloak, and yet I meant no harm."
"I am sure you never mean to be anything but the dearest girl in the
world," said I, kissing her. "As to what happened to-day, I wouldn't
think of it any more."
"I don't see that I can do anything about it now, only to make it an
occasion of humility," says Amice.
"I don't think you can do anything better with it than to let it alone
and think about something else," says I, and so the matter ended.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
_Feast of St. Agnes, April 20._
A YEAR ago at this time I was at home, busily preparing flowers and
wreaths for my sister's bridal, under dear mother's eye. I knew Alice
wanted violets, and Dick and I went to search for them in the coombe,
where the banks being shady, the violets do longest linger. When we
had filled our baskets with the flowers, which we found in abundance,
both white and blue, we sat down a little on the moss to listen to the
singing of the birds and the lapse of the water. These gentle sounds,
albeit most sweet and tender, did somewhat dispose us to silence, if
not melancholy. Presently Richard said:
"I wonder where we shall be a year from now, Rosamond? You know this
same spring used to be a favorite haunt of the Fair Dame of Stanton, my
ancestress. They say she used to see in the bosom of the water, as in a
mirror, all that was to come to pass."
"I can tell pretty well where we shall be a year from now, without
any of the Fair Dame's art," said I. "You know she was said to be a
heretic, if not worse."
"Yes, but I don't believe it!" answered Dick, valiantly. "I believe she
was a good woman, and a good wife. But since you know so well, tell me
where we shall be?"
"You will be in France with my Lord your uncle," said I, "or else
attending him at Court, winning your spurs by brave deeds, or dancing
with fair dames and damsels; and I shall be at the convent, working of
cut-work copes and altar-cloths in silk and gold; or helping Mother
Gertrude dry herbs, and distil cordials, and make comfits: or studying
the lives of the Saints; or—"
"Be wasting your time and youth on some nonsense or other," interrupted
Richard, who never could bear to hear of my being a nun. "It is a
shame!"
"It was my mother's doing, and I will not hear a word against it!" said
I. "Besides, I don't know why I shouldn't be happy there as well as
anywhere else. A great many nuns are happy, and beside that, Dick, to
be happy is not the business of life."
Dick received this remark with the grunt which he always bestows
on my wise speeches, and we were silent for a time. Then Dick said
passionately, all at once—pointing to a chaffinch, a dear little
fowl, which sat on a twig singing his very heart out, "Sweetheart!
Sweetheart!" over and over again:
"Rosamond, nothing shall make me think that yonder bird does not serve
God just as acceptably while he is flitting about gathering food for
his young ones, and singing in the free air of heaven, as if he were
shut behind the bars of a cage, singing the same song over and over,
after the old bird-catcher's whistle."
"The bird is only a bird," I answered, "and, as Master Ellenwood often
tells us, comparisons are no arguments. Besides, Dick, I have to go, so
where is the use of repining? My mother has promised for me, and I have
promised her again this very day (and so I had); so where is the use of
an argument?"
"It's a shame!" said Dick, passionately; adding, "If you cared for me
as I do for you, you wouldn't talk so coolly of its being an end."
Whereat there was nothing to do but to rise and return to the house.
I don't know why I have written this down, only it is a part of my
life. There can be no harm in it, because Richard and I can never be
anything to each other—not even brother and sister—because a good
religious knows no ties of natural affection. No doubt the coombe
is full this very day of violets and primroses, and all other sweet
flowers, and the spring is welling up and running over its basin all
among the moss and fern, and the brook liverwort; and I dare say the
very same chaffinch is singing there this minute. There are violets in
our convent garden as well, but they are planted in a straight bed, and
Mother Gabrielle uses the flowers to make her sirups, and the leaves
are gathered for our sallets. There is a spring, too, but not one bit
like that in the coombe. That boils up out of a deep and wide cleft in
the rock, filling its basin full and running over the stones in twenty
little vagrant streams. Great ferns grow over and shade it, and leaves
drop into it in the autumn, and birds and wild-wood creatures come
to drink of its waters. This pours in a steady orderly stream from a
pipe which sticks straight out from the wall, and runs down a straight
course, paved and edged with cut stone, into the stew-pond where we
keep our fish.
Still our convent garden is a sweet and pretty place, full of orderly
knots and beds of flowers and herbs, chiefly such as are good to distil
cordials, or to help out our messes on fast days—rue, and mints, and
hyssops, and angelica, and caraway, and burnet—with abundance of roses,
and poppies, and white lilies, and a long bed of sweet flowers for the
bees.
We have a fine stock of beehives. Then we have plum and pear and apple
trees, and a bed of strawberries. At the end of the garden are two most
ancient elm trees, and under them a very small, and very, very old
chapel of our Lady of Sorrows. Dear Mother says it is by far the oldest
part of the convent. It is very small, as I said, built of huge stones,
with low heavy arches. Over the altar stands the image of our Lady,
rudely carved in some dark wood. It is a very holy image, and used to
work miracles in old times. I wish it would again. I should dearly love
to see a miracle.
At the back of this chapel, and joining it, so as to be under the same
roof, is another building, very low and massive, with no windows, but
one very narrow slit, close under the eaves. A heavy iron-studded door
opens into it from the chapel itself. Mother Gertrude told me one day
that it contained the staircase leading to a burial vault under the
chapel, now never used, and that it had not been opened for years and
years.
The Sisters are not fond of this shrine, holy as it is, and I think
they are afraid of it. Indeed I know Sister Bridget told me that if an
unfaithful nun were to watch there over night, she would be found dead
on the floor in the morning—if indeed a ghost or demon did not arise
from the vault and drag her down to a living death below.
"I should not think a ghost would dare to come into the sacred place!"
said Amice.
"Evil spirits have power over the unfaithful, wherever they
are—remember that, child!" said Sister Bridget, solemnly.
"And over the faithful too, sometimes," said Amice, who is as usual
reading the lives of Saints. "I am sure St. Frances was dreadfully
disturbed by them."
"Power to disturb, but not to destroy them, child. But prayers offered
at that shrine have great efficacy for the deliverance of souls from
purgatory," said old Mother Mary Monica, who is the oldest person in
the house, and very fond of the company of us young ones. "If any one
had a friend in purgatory, and should watch all night in prayer before
that image, it would go far to deliver him."
"Do you really think so, Mother?" I asked.
"Think so, child! I know it for a truth. The blessed Saint Ethelburga
herself tried it, and was assured by a vision and a miracle that
her prayers were granted. Eh dear, I could tell you many stories of
miracles, my daughters. They used to be plenty in my young days. Why, I
was converted by a miracle myself."
"Tell us about it, dear Mother, will you?" said Amice and I both
together; and Amice added, "See, here is a nice seat, and the warm sun
is good for your pains, you know."
So she sat down, the good old soul, and Amice and I on stones at her
feet, and she told us the tale. I will set it down just as I remember
it.
"You must know, my children, that I was a giddy young girl in
attendance on the Queen—not the Queen that now is, but Queen Elizabeth,
wife of Henry the Seventh, this King's father—when I went with my
mistress to make a retreat at the convent of the poor Clares, in
London—"
"The same that Sister Catherine is always praising," said I.
"Yes, the very same; but don't you put me out. Where was I?"
"Where you went with the Queen to make a retreat, dear Mother."
"O yes. Well, I had been a giddy girl, as I told you, but I had been
somewhat sobered of late, because my cousin Jack, whom my father always
meant I should wed, had been on the wrong side in the late troubles,
and was in hiding at that time. Now, I liked Jack right well, and was
minded to marry none other; but I was a King's ward, my father being
dead, and I having a good fortune. So I had a many suitors, and I knew
the King was favorable to a knight, Sir Edward Peckham, of Somerset,
who had come to him with help just at the right time. Now, I wanted
nobody but Jack; but of all my suitors there was none that I misliked
so much as Sir Edward Peckham!"
"Why?" asked I, much interested.
"Because I could not abide him, child. That was reason enough. Well,
things being even in this shape, I was glad enough when my mistress
made her retreat in the convent of the Poor Clares, and chose me to
attend on her, out of all her train. That was a strict order, children.
Matins at one o'clock in the morning—not overnight, as we have them
here—no food till dinner at eleven, and no flesh meat even on feast
days—almost perpetual silence! Well, it was always and ever my way
to fall in with whatever was going on, let it be what it might; so I
fasted and prayed with the best, and kept all the hours, till I was so
tired I could hardly stand. In the midst of it all came a messenger to
my mistress from the King, bidding her return to the Court in three
days and bring me with her, for the King was minded that my marriage
should no longer be put off.
"Children, I was like one distracted, and I was all but ready to cast
myself away, body and soul. The Mother Superior marked my grief, and
I was won to tell her the whole. She was an austere woman—not one bit
like our Mother—but she was very kind to me in my trouble—"
"I am sure our dear Mother Superior is a saint, if ever there was one,"
said I.
"That she is, that she is, child; but there may be a difference in
saints, you know. Well, Mother Superior pitied my grief, and soothed
me, and when I was quieted like, she councilled me to watch all night
before a shrine in which were some very holy relics—specially part of
the veil of St. Clare, our blessed founder."
"'Perhaps the Saint may take pity on you and show you the way out of
your present troubles,' said she. 'Fast this day from all food, my
daughter, and this night I will myself conduct you to the shrine where
you are to watch.'"
"Well, children, I did fast and say my rosary all the rest of the day,
till I was ready to drop; and at nine at night the Mother Superior
led me to a little chapel off the church, where was the shrine of St.
Clare. It was all dark—only looking toward the church I could just see
the glimmer of the ever-burning lamp, before the Holy Sacrament of the
Altar. Here she left me, and here I was to kneel till daylight, saying
my prayers and the seven psalms."
"I don't see how you could kneel so long," said Amice.
"I might lie prone a part of the time, if I would," replied Mother Mary
Monica, "and so indeed I did. I don't know what time it was—somewhere
before Matins, and I know not whether overcome with fatigue I had not
dozed a little, when I was waked by a bright light. I raised myself
on my knees, and looking toward the altar, I saw the figure of St.
Clare surrounded by a clear but mild radiance, and holding out to me
in her hand a nun's veil, while a voice of heavenly sweetness, said
to me these words: 'Here, my child, is thy only refuge.' The light
faded away, and I sunk down—in a swoon this time, for when some of the
Sisters came to seek me at prime, they found me pale and lifeless,
while—mark, my daughters—on my head was laid that most sacred relic,
the veil of St. Clare—yes, on this unworthy head the blessed veil was
laid."
We both looked at the good Mother in a kind of awe.
"Well, I told the good Sisters and my mistress what I had seen. There
could be no doubt after that in my mind, especially as two or three
days after I had certain news of Jack's death. The King would not hear
of my profession at first, but the Prior of the Franciscans took my
part, and his Majesty would not have liked setting the whole of the
Gray Friars against him; so he gave way, and even paid over my portion,
which must have gone hard, for his blessed Majesty was fond of money;
and Sir Edward went home riding alone, with a flea in his ear, instead
of a bride by his side. Marry him, indeed, with his thin legs and
his long lean jaws! So that is the way I was converted, my children,
and got my own way, by the help of the Blessed St. Clare, to whom I
have always had a particular devotion ever since. And who knows what
miracles might be vouchsafed to you, if you were to watch all night
before the shrine of our Lady?"
We had no time for any more talk just then, but ever since I have been
turning over in my mind what Mother Mary Monica said. It does seem
dreadful to me—the thought of watching all night and alone in that
dreary place without a light. To be sure, the moon is at the full, and
would shine directly into the great window, but then those dreadful
vaults, and Sister Bridget's story do so run in my head. Every time the
wind shook the ivy or whistled in the loopholes of the stones, I should
fancy it a rustle among the graves below, or the grating of that heavy
door on its hinges. And then, so cold and damp.
Wretch that I am, to weigh these things one moment in the balance
against my dear mother's soul! I feel sure that she could not have
died in mortal sin, but to pass without the sacraments, without one
moment's warning! Oh, it is dreadful! And then her marrying instead
of taking the veil. That I think troubles dear Mother Superior worse
than anything. Yes, I am quite resolved. I will watch this very night
before the shrine in the garden chapel; but I will tell nobody of my
resolve, save Amice and Mother Gertrude. I don't want the whole flock
exclaiming, pitying or praising me, or hinting at my setting up for a
saint, as some of them do.
[Of course, being now enlightened by Holy Scripture, I do not believe
that my dear mother was benefitted by my watching, nor indeed that she
needed such benefit; but I will ever maintain that the exertion to
overcome my own fears (which were very terrible), for my mother's sake,
was of great service to me. 'Twas a true act of self-sacrifice, though
done in ignorance, and that not to pile up a stock of merit for myself,
but to do good to another.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
_Feast of St. Catherine, April 29._
THIS is the first time I have been able to write since my watching at
our Lady's shrine, at which time I took such a chill and rheum as have
kept me laid up ever since. Mother Gertrude was much opposed thereto,
but could say nothing against it, seeing that Mother Superior had given
her consent.
"If she wants to send the child after her mother, she has taken the
next way to do it," I heard her mutter to herself.
"Why, dear Mother, should you have such fears for me," I asked. "I have
lately confessed (and so I had the day before), and I am sure I am not
false to my vows, because I have never taken any. Why, then, should the
demon have power over me?"
"I was not thinking of the demon, child, but of the damp," answered
Mother Gertrude, in her matter-of-fact way. "However I say no more. I
know how to be obedient, after all these years. And nobody can deny but
it is a good daughter's heart which moves thee, my child, and so God
and all the Saints bless thee."
Amice would have shared my watch, only it was needful one should go
alone; but she promised to watch in her cell. She went with me to the
chapel door, as did Mother Gertrude, and we said some prayers together.
Then, as the hour of nine tolled, they kissed me and went their way,
leaving me to my solitary watch and ward.
Oh, what a lone and long night it was! I did not mind it so much
before midnight, for the moon shone fair into the great east window,
and two nightingales, in the garden outside, answered each other most
melodiously from side to side. My mother ever loved the nightingale
above all other birds, because she said its song reminded her of her
young days in the midland of England. They are rare visitors with us.
But, as I said, dear mother ever loved this bird's song, and now their
voices seemed to come as a message from herself, in approval of what I
was doing. I knelt on the cold stones, before our Lady's shrine, saying
my rosary, and repeating of Psalms, and the first two hours did not
seem so very long. But the birds stopped singing. The moon moved on her
course, so that the chapel was left almost in darkness. The south-west
wind rose and brought with it all kinds of dismal sounds, now moaning
and sobbing at the casement, and shaking it as if to gain an entrance;
now, as it seemed, whispering in the vaults under my feet, as if the
ghosts might be holding a consultation as to the best way of surprising
me. Anon, the great heavy door of which I have before spoken, did a
little jar on its hinges, and from behind it came, as it seemed, the
rustling of wings, and then a thrilling cry as of a soul in pain.
I felt my blood grow cold, and my flesh creep, and my head swim. But
'tis not the custom of our house for the women more than the men to
give way to fear, and I was determined I would not be overcome. I said
stoutly to myself, "That sobbing and whispering is of the wind—those
wings are the wings of bats or owls, which have found refuge in the
old tower—that is the cry of the little white owl, which I have heard
a hundred times at home—that low roar is the rote of the surf which we
ever hear at night when the wind is south-west."
So I reasoned with myself, and then to calm myself still farther, I
began to repeat the Psalms, of which I know the greater part by heart,
thanks to Master Ellenwood, beginning with the Psalm, "Beati, quorum."
And here a strange thing happened to me, for no sooner had I repeated
the words, "Whoso putteth his trust in the Lord, mercy embraceth him
on every side," than there came over me such a wonderful sweetness
and confidence as I am not able to describe. I seemed to feel that I
was in the very house of God, where no harm could come to me, nor any
evil thing hurt me. And 'twas not only for myself that I felt this
assurance, but for my dear mother also. "If ever woman did put her
trust in God, I am sure she did so," I said to myself, "and therefore,
wherever she is, I have His own word for believing her to be embraced
in the arms of His mercy."
And with that I went to prayer again, for my father and brother, and
for Alice and her husband, and her young babe, and then for poor Dick.
And (I know not if right or wrong) I used no form of words, but did
pour out my soul almost as freely as if I had been talking alone with
mother in her closet, when kneeling beside her, with my arms on her
lap, she used graciously to encourage me to pour out all my thoughts
and fancies.
If that had been all, there had been no great harm done, mayhap; but
from praying for Dick, I fell to thinking of him, and recalling all our
passages together, from the early days when my father used to set me
behind him on the old pony, and when we used to build forts and castles
on the sand of the shore, to our last sad parting, almost a year ago.
'Twas very wrong to indulge such thoughts in such a sacred place, and
that I knew, and did constantly strive to bring my mind into a better
frame. But the more I tried the more I wandered, and at last I believe
I dropped asleep. I could not have slept long, when I was waked by the
most horrid screams and cries—now like those of a young child, now like
a woman in fits, now like the ravings of a madman, all seemingly in the
chapel itself. I fell prostrate on my face, at the same moment that
something rushed by me with a great noise, closely pursued by something
else, which brushed me as it passed.
Now, though terribly scared, I yet felt my spirit rise as I discovered
that the thing had a material existence; and though the cold sweat
stood on my forehead, and my heart seemed all but to stop beating, I
raised myself once more on my knees and looked around. My eyes had by
this time grown used to the dim light, and I could see, crouched on the
very step of the altar, a dark creature, which looked at me with green
fiery eyes. Then it came to me, and I all but laughed aloud.
"Puss, Puss!" said I.
"Mieeo!" answered a friendly voice, and poor old Tom, our convent cat,
came to me, rubbing his head, and purring in quite an ecstasy of joyful
surprise.
I saw in a moment how it was. Tom is a regular Lollard of a cat, and
cares no more for the Church than the cowhouse—indeed Sister Catherine
once found him sitting on the high altar, and would have slain him,
had not Mother Superior interfered. He had been entertaining a select
party of his own friends in the Lady Chapel, and some cause of dispute
arising, he had chased them all out, and remained master of the field.
I took the old fellow in my arms, and caressed him, and he bumped his
head against my face, making his prettiest noises. Then I rose and
walked to and fro to warm myself a little, for it was very chill, and
tried once more to bring my thoughts in order by repeating my favorite
Psalm, though not with as much comfort: as before, because of the sin
I had committed by thinking of Dick when I should have been praying.
However, at the words, "I said I will confess my sins unto the Lord," I
found consolation, for I thought, "then I need not wait to confess to
Father Fabian, but can make my confession now, in this place."
So I did, and then once more repeating my rosary, I sat down on a rude
bench which was there, to rest a few moments. That was the last of
my meditations and prayers, for I fell fast asleep, with Puss in my
lap, and slept till I was waked by the sun shining into the great east
window. I was very sleepy, and could hardly make out where I was; but,
however, I said my prayers once more, and then Mother Gertrude came to
seek me, and make me go to bed.
Ever since then, my mind has been wonderfully calmed and comforted
about my mother. I seem to see her, embraced by mercy on every side,
and entered into her rest. So I do not grudge my cold, though it has
kept me in bed ten days, during which time Mother Gertrude has fed me
with possets and sirups, and good things more than I can eat.
This morning I made a full confession to Father Fabian of my wandering
thoughts during my night watch, and the rest. The good old man was very
kind, and gave me light penance. I asked him what I must do to prevent
such wanderings in future.
"I will consider of that," said he. "You are a Latin scholar, and can
write a good hand, they tell me."
I assured him that I could write fair and plain, and had a good
knowledge of Latin, so that I could read and write it with ease.
"Ah, well!" said he. "We must find some way to turn these gifts to
account. Meantime, daughter, be busy in whatever you find to do whereby
you can help others; say your psalms, and meditate on them, and never
trouble thyself about the devil."
'Twas an odd saying, methought, for a priest. I told Amice all about my
night watch, as I do tell her everything.
"Do you really think—" said she, and then she stopped.
"Well, do I really think what?" I asked, seeing she did not continue.
"Do you think you have any ground for your confidence about your
mother, from that verse in the Psalm?"
I felt hurt for a minute, and I suppose my face showed it, for Amice
added, "Don't be displeased, Rosamond. I only ask because it seems
almost too good to be true. If you should find what seemed to be a
precious pearl, you would wish to know whether it really was a pearl,
or only an imitation, wouldn't you?"
"To be sure," I answered, and then I considered a little.
"Yes, I do think I have ground for my confidence, though I am not quite
sure I can explain it. You know, Amice, the Psalms are inspired—a part
of the word of God, and therefore, surely, their promises are to be
taken as true. The Psalm says, 'Whoso putteth his trust in the Lord,
mercy embraceth him on every side.' Now, I know my dear mother did put
her trust in the Lord, if woman ever did in this world, and, therefore,
I am at ease for her, though she died without the Sacraments, which was
not her fault."
"You used your night watch to good purpose, if you thought out all
this," said Amice.
"I did not think it out—it came to me," said I.
"Came to you—how?" asked Amice.
"I can't tell you," I answered, I am afraid, a little impatiently.
"I am not used to taking all my thoughts and feelings to pieces, as
you do. I only know that it seemed to come to me from outside my own
mind—to be breathed into my heart, as somebody might whisper in my ear."
"It is very lovely," said Amice, with a sigh. "It is like some of the
visions of the Saints. I think, Rosamond, you will be a Saint, like St.
Clare or St. Catherine."
"I don't believe it," said I. "It is a great deal more in your way than
mine."
We were busy in the garden while we were talking, gathering rosemary
and violets for Mother Gertrude to distil. Amice had her lap full of
rosemary, and she sat down and began pulling it into little bits.
"Rosamond," said she, presently, looking about her, and speaking in a
low tone, "do you really like the notion of being a nun?"
"To tell you the truth, I never ask myself whether I like it or not," I
answered her. "What is the use? I had no choice in the matter myself.
Here I am, and I must needs make the best of it. There would be little
profit in my asking myself whether I really liked to be a woman instead
of a man. I like being here in the garden, pulling flowers for Mother
Gertrude, and I like taking care of the books, dusting them and reading
a bit here and there, and I like singing in the church, and working for
the poor folk, though I should like still better to teach them to work
for themselves."
"I suppose, of course, it is the highest life to which one can obtain!"
said Amice, thoughtfully. "And yet I suppose it must have been meant
that some people should marry and bring up families."
"I suppose it must, since without some such arrangement, the race of
religious must come to an end before long," said I.
"Of course!" continued Amice, in the same musing tone. "You know St.
Augustine had a mother, and so did St. Frances!"
"Did you ever hear of any one who had not?" said I, laughing. "But to
return your question upon yourself, Amice, how do you like the notion
of being a nun?"
"Not one bit!" said Amice, with emphasis.
I never was more surprised in my life, for I had always thought that if
any one ever had a vocation it was Amice Crocker.
"The life is so narrow!" she continued, with vehemence, pulling so
impatiently at her rosemary that she scratched her fingers. "Just look
at the most of our sisters."
"Well, what of them?" I asked. "They are very well, I am sure. Sister
Catherine is rather prying and meddling, and Sister Bridget is silly,
and a good many of them are rather fond of good eating, and of gossip,
but they are kindly souls, after all. And where will you find better
women than dear Mother Superior, or Mother Gertrude, or a pleasanter
companion than Mother Mary Monica, when she is in the mood of telling
her old tales?"
"That may be all so, but what does it amount to, after all?" said
Amice. "Look at that same Mother Mary Monica. She has been a nun in
this and the other house sixty years, and what have those sixty years
brought to pass? What has she to show for them?"
"Well, a good deal of embroidery," said I, considering. "She worked
that superb altar cloth, and those copes that we use still on grand
occasions, and she has made hundreds of pounds of sweetmeats, and
gallons on gallons of cordials."
"And the sweetmeats are eaten, and the cordials drank, and in a few
years the embroidery—what remains of it—will be rags and dust! Old Dame
Lee in the village has ten sons, and I know not how many grandsons and
daughters, all good and useful folk."
"And Roger Smith has a dozen children, each one more useless and idle
than the other," said I.
"I can't endure the thought of such a life," continued Amice. "It
sickens me—it frightens me. I would not be a religious unless I could
be a great saint, like St. Clare or St. Catherine.'
"Why don't you, then?" I asked.
She looked strangely at me, methought, but made no reply, and Mother
Gertrude calling us, we talked no more at that time. But I have been
considering the matter, and I can't but think Amice was wrong. I have
seen more of home life than she, and I know that of very necessity
a great part of any woman's life—yea, and of almost any man's—must
needs be spent in doing the same things over and over again; in making
garments to be worn out, and preparing food to be eaten, and hushing
children, and ordering the household. All these things have to be done,
or there would be no such thing as family life—nay, there could be no
convent life—and so long as they are necessary, I think there must be
some way of hallowing them and making them acceptable offerings to
Heaven, as well as prayers, and watching, and penance. I mean to ask
Mother Gertrude.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
_Eve of St. John, May 5th._
FATHER FABIAN has set me to work, as he promised, and I like my task
very much. I am translating into English the work of a German monk
named Thomas à Kempis. The piece is called, "The Imitation of Christ,"
and is, of course, of a religious character, and is so good, so
spiritual, and yet so plain in its teaching, as I think, nothing could
be better, unless it were the Holy Gospel itself. There is a great deal
of it, and I go on but slowly, for I am desirous of doing my very best
therein; and besides I am often impelled to stop and meditate on what
I am writing. Besides this, Mother Superior has made me librarian, and
I am to keep all the books in order—no very hard task, methinks, when
nobody ever touches them but Amice and myself.
Amice still studies the lives of the Saints as diligently as ever.
I know not what has come over her, but she seems very much changed
the last few days. She is silent and reserved, spends as much of her
time alone as she possibly can, eats hardly anything, and only of the
plainest and coarsest food. She has always been very open with me, but
now even when we are together she says hardly a word. I think I will
ask her what is the matter. Maybe I have offended her in some way,
though I am sure I don't know how.
This afternoon I had the great pleasure of a visit from my father, who
came to consult Father Fabian on the matter of a priest for the chantry
he means to build. He looks worn and thin, but says he is well, as are
all at home. Alice's babe is a fine boy, at which they are all much
pleased, all the Fultons of the second generation so far being maidens.
Alice herself is well and happy, and sends me her love and a tiny curl
of her boy's hair, of which he has a plenty.
"So he is dark," said I, looking at the pretty tress.
"Aye, black as a Corby," answered my father, smiling more like himself,
than I have seen him in a long time. "'Tis a true Corbet brat."
"And yourself, dear father, are you quite well?" I ventured to ask.
"Yes, child, well and over well," he answered, somewhat peevishly, "if
this journey to London does not kill me!"
"To London!" I exclaimed. "Dear father, what can take you to London?"
"Even that same need which makes the old wife to trot, chick! I must
see my Lord before he goes abroad, concerning certain leases and the
like. It is through no good will of mine, I promise thee, for I was
never fond either of Court or city in my best days, and now—But how
goes it with you, child?" he asked, interrupting himself. "Methinks you
are thin and pale."
I told him of my cold, and how I had taken it. I could see he was
pleased, though he bade me be careful of my health.
"I would watch a dozen nights myself in the darkest vault under the
church if it would do her any good!" he muttered, with so sad a look
and such a deep sigh, that I was compelled to speak and tell him how I
had been comforted concerning my mother. He listened in silence, and
dashed the tears from his eyes when I had done.
"I would—I would I could think so," he said; "but to die without the
sacraments—and I was the tempter to lead her from her vocation. But,
take comfort, child, if thou canst. It may be thou art right, after
all."
"I feel sure of it," said I; and then I reminded him how devout and
humble dear mother was—how careful of all those under her government,
and how exact in training them to ways of devotion and truth; and
I repeated to him sundry verses of the Psalms, on which I had been
thinking a great deal of late.
"Well, well, you seem to have thought to good purpose," said he, at
last. "Master Ellenwood, at least, would hold with you. He is all for
making of my chantry a school for the young maids of the village, where
they may learn to spin and sew, and say their prayers, and even to
read. He says it would be a better offering to your mother's memory
than a useless chapel and a lazy fat priest, such as these chantry
clerks often grow to be."
"I am sure mother would be pleased," said I. "You know she always did
favor the notion of a school."
"There is something in that," answered my father, ruminating in silence
a minute. "Well, child, I must needs go on my way. Hast no word for my
Lord and poor Dick, who goes with him to France?"
I sent my humble duty to my Lord, and with Mother Superior's
permission, a little book of prayers to Dick, who I know neglects his
devotions sometimes. I think he will use the book for my sake. Dear
father bestowed on me his blessing, and a beautiful gold and ebony
rosary, which had once been mother's, and then rode away. I wondered
when I should see him again. It is a very long and not very safe
journey to London from these parts.
I showed Mother Superior my rosary, and the little lock of baby's hair.
She looked long at the beads, and returned them to me with a sigh.
"I remember them well," said she. "They came from Rome, and have the
blessing of our Holy Father the Pope. Did your mother use them?"
"Not often, as I think," I answered. "She liked better a string of
beads of carved wood, which she said my father brought her from the
East country before she was married."
"Olive wood, belike," said Mother, "though I fear 'twas your father's
giving them which made them precious. Your mother's strong and warm
natural affections were a snare to her, my child. See that they be not
so to you, for you are as like her as one pea is to another."
"But was it not mother's duty to love my father, since she was his
wife?" I ventured to ask.
"Surely, child! 'Tis the duty of all wives. The trouble was in her
being a wife at all, since she forsook a higher vocation to become one.
Nobody can deny that the vocation of a religious is far higher than
that of a wife."
"But if there were no wives, there would by-and-by be no religious,"
said I; whereat dear Mother smiled and patted my cheek, telling me that
my tongue ran too fast and far for a good novice, and that she must
find means to tame it. However, I do not think she was angry.
Sister Frances says that everything I do is right because I do it, and
that I am the favorite both with Mother Superior and Mother Gertrude.
If I am—which I don't believe, because I think both the dear Mothers
mean to be just to all—I am sure I shall never take any advantage of
their kindness.
When I got a chance, I showed my treasures to Amice.
"You wont keep them, will you?" asked Amice.
"Keep them! Of course I shall!" I answered, rather indignantly, I am
afraid. "What would you have me do with my dear mother's rosary and the
baby's curl?"
"'A good religious will have nothing which she calls her own,'" said
Amice, as if quoting something. "She will strive for perfection, and to
acquire that she must be wholly detached from all human affections, so
that mother or child, husband or brother, shall be no more to her than
the rest of the world. Are we not expressly told in the lives of the
Saints that St. Francis disregarded the remonstrances and the curses
of his father, and that even the tears and prayers of his mother were
nothing to him? Did not St. Clare, our blessed founder, fly from her
father's house at midnight, and by the advice of St. Francis himself,
conceal the step she was about to take from her father and mother, and
did not St. Agnes herself shortly do the same, and absolutely refuse to
return, though she was but fourteen years old?"
"But Amice, Master Ellenwood told me himself, that, 'Honor thy father
and mother,' is one of the chief commandments," I objected. "And
besides I am not yet a religious."
"But you mean to be—you have promised to be one," answered Amice. "I
don't know about the commandments, but I do know that our order is
specially dedicated to holy poverty, and you cannot embrace that, and
call anything your own—not so much as your rosary or the clothes you
wear. I think you should burn this hair, and offer the rosary on the
shrine of our Lady, in the garden."
"I will ask Mother Gertrude about it," said I; and the good Mother
entering at that moment, I laid the case before her. She smiled rather
sadly, methought, and looked lovingly at the little curl of baby hair,
as it lay on her hand.
"So you think it is not right for you to keep these things?" said she.
"Not I, but Amice," I answered. "She says it is not consistent with
holy poverty."
"And dost think, child, it is very consistent with holy humility, or
holy obedience either, for thee to be giving spiritual council or
direction to thy sister?" asked Mother Gertrude, turning somewhat
sharply to Amice, who colored, but said nothing.
"I don't think Amice was in fault, Mother," I ventured to say, for I
thought she was hard upon Amice. "She only told me what she thought."
"Well, well, maybe not," answered the old nun, relenting as she ever
does after the first sharp word; "I did not mean to chide, but I am
put past my patience with meddling and tattling, and what not. As to
the rosary, you had better ask Father Fabian, or Mother Superior.
Come, children, you should be at your work, and not idling here. I
wish, Rosamond, that Father Fabian had found some one else to copy his
precious manuscripts. I want you to help about ordering the patterns
for the new copes, and mending the altar linen. There is nobody in the
house can equal you in a pattern or a darn, save Mother Mary Monica,
and her eyes and hands are both too far gone, for such work."
"Cannot I help you, Mother?" said Amice, with an evident effort.
"You! No, child, thank you all the same, not till you learn the use of
your fingers better than you have it now."
Amice colored, but answered not a word.
"But, dear Mother, I dare say the manuscript can wait," said I. "There
is no hurry, I know, for Father Fabian told me I might take my time
about it, and I can do it at one time as well as another, even by
lamplight; when I cannot work, I can help about the copes, part of the
day, or until they are finished."
"That's my good child," said she. "Well, come down to the sacristy in
about half an hour, and we will get them all out, and consider them.
We want to have everything in apple-pie order, you see." And the good
Mother bustled away.
"So I must leave my writing and go to working, it seems." said I,
rather pettishly, I fear, for I do love my translating, and I am
not devoted to cut-work and darning, though, thanks to dear Mother,
I rather excel in both these arts. "However, 'tis to please Mother
Gertrude, and 'tis all in the day's work. But what is the matter,
Amice?" I added, seeing tears in her eyes; "surely you need not think
so much of a word from Mother Gertrude. You know 'tis her way?"
"I know it," answered Amice. "I ought to have knelt at her feet and
thanked her for her reproof, instead of feeling hurt. I have lost a
chance for exercising holy humility. I can go down to the sacristy and
do it when you meet her there."
"I'll tell you a better way," said I. "Get a piece of linen and set
yourself to work in earnest to practise the stitches, so that you can
help her another time; for you know, dear, you really don't work very
neatly, because you won't keep your mind on your work. You are always
wool-gathering—maybe I should say meditating—about something else. Come
now, that will be the best way. I am sure Mother will be willing to
have me teach you, or to show you herself."
"Thank you, sister Rosamond; but really I don't perceive such a great
difference between our work as you do!" said Amice, coldly. "It will be
time to come to the sacristy when I am asked."
"Just as you please," said I, rather vexed. "I thought you wished a
chance for holy humility, that's all."
And I came away without another word, and went down to the sacristy,
where Mother Gertrude and the Sacristine had all the vestments spread
out in great array. There was one old cambric cope done in cut-work so
fine as to resemble lace, but so worn and decayed that it fairly broke
with its own weight.
"What a pity!" said the Sacristine. "Do you think you could mend it,
Rosamond? There is not such another—no, not at Glastonbury itself,
Father Fabian says."
"I don't believe it can be mended!" said I, considering it. "You see
the fabric is so old there is nothing to hold the darning thread. But
if I had a piece of fine cambric, I think I can work another like it.
At any rate, I can try; and if I don't succeed, there will be no great
harm done."
The Mothers were both pleased, and Mother Superior coming in, the
matter was laid before her.
"Can you accomplish it, daughter?" she asked. "This is a very curious
piece of work."
"I can try!" said I. "If I fail, there will be no great loss."
"True, my child, but your translation?"
"Oh, Father Fabian will excuse me, or I can work at it a part of the
time. Perhaps that will be the best way!"
So it was settled, and Mother Superior said she would send directly and
procure the cambric and thread.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
_May 15th._
I HAVE drawn my patterns and made a beginning, after practising the
lace stitches on something else, and am really succeeding very well.
I take two hours a day for that and two for my translation. I did not
mean to have my work seen till I found out whether it were like to turn
out well, but Mother Sacristine was so pleased, she must needs publish
the matter. I can see plainly that some of the Sisters are not pleased
at all; indeed Sister Catherine said plainly 'twas not fit such an
honor should be laid on the youngest person in the house, and not even
one of the professed.
I am sure I never thought of its being such a great honor—only that it
pleases the dear Mothers, I would much rather work at my translation or
make baby clothes for the women in the village. I can't help thinking
too (though perhaps I ought not to write it), that our Lord Himself
would be quite as well pleased to have my skill employed in clothing
the naked little ones baptized in His name, as to have it used to add
one more piece of finery to the twenty-five costly copes, and other
vestments in proportion, in which our house takes so much pride. But
these are matters too high for me to judge, and I know He will approve
of my obeying and striving to please those whom He hath set in place of
parents to me.
It has, somehow, leaked out—I can't guess how, unless by means of some
eavesdropper—that I sent a book to my cousin, when my father was here;
and Sister Catherine has taken me severely to task therefor. I told her
that Richard was my cousin, and that I had Mother Superior's leave.
"Pretty discipline—pretty discipline!" she muttered. "Sending love
tokens from a religious house. Well, well, we shall see. As for you,
Mistress Rosamond, you are high in favor just now, and all you do is
well, because, forsooth, you have a cunning hand with the needle, and
can skill to read Latin; but have a care! Favorites are not long lived,
and pride may have a fall!"
I made her no answer, and so she left me.
_Eve of St. John the Baptist, June 23rd._
We have been mighty busy all day preparing for the feast to-morrow. We
are to have high mass, and the celebrant is none other than my Lord
Bishop himself, who thus honors our poor family. He has been here
to-day, and has had long conference with Mother Superior, Father Fabian
and the other elders. I fancy the two first wear a shade of care, and
even the Bishop does not look as easy and merry as when I have seen him
before.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
_St. John Baptist's Day, June 24._
TO my great surprise, I myself was summoned to the Bishop's presence
last evening. He was sitting in a great chair in the parlor, and
received me graciously and kindly.
"Be not alarmed, my daughter," said he, seeing that I trembled, for
indeed I was frightened, not knowing what to think or expect. "I only
wish to ask you a few questions. I dare say there is nothing wrong."
And then to my surprise, he began questioning me about my father's
visit, and the motives which had led me to the convent. I told him all,
not knowing any reasons for concealment. Then he asked me whether I had
seen my cousin since I left home. Very much surprised, I answered, "No,
my Lord, I have had no chance to see him. He hath been in London, with
my Lord, his uncle, and I have not stirred outside these walls since I
came hither."
"And you have held no communication with him by letter or otherwise?"
asked the Bishop.
I told him how I had sent him a book of prayers by my father, with
Mother Superior's approbation.
"And did he send nothing to you—no lock of hair or other love token?"
I was vexed enough, but I could not forbear a smile. "My Lord," said I,
"my father did assuredly bring me a lock of hair, taken from the head
of a very young gentleman, which I will show you." And I took from my
pocket my little Latin Psalter and showed him the babe's little curl
fastened to one of the blank leaves. My Lord looked at it and smiled
also.
"A very young gentleman indeed, I should say," he remarked. "Surely, it
is the hair of a young infant."
"Yes, my Lord, of my sister's first child, about six weeks old. She
sent it me by my father, and I thought no harm in keeping it."
"And was there naught else?"
"Truly, my mother's rosary," I answered; and then seeing his manner so
kind, I ventured to ask him if there was anything wrong in my keeping
and using it. He told me "none at all, but that I should strive to
disengage my heart from earthly affections, as became a good religious."
Then he questioned me about my vigil in the Chapel and my motives
therefor, to all of which I returned him clear and plain answers,
having naught to conceal. Finally he asked me "whether I thought I had
a true vocation?"
"Do not be fluttered," said he, kindly. "Take time, and tell me what
you think."
I told him I did not know how to answer, because I had never fairly
considered the subject. I had been brought up to think of the convent
as my home, and most of my life had been passed within its walls. I had
promised my mother to become a nun, and I meant to keep my word, and
to do my duty as well as I could; but I could not pretend to say that
I felt or ever had felt any such strong drawing toward the cloister as
some of the other Sisters professed, and as I had read of in the lives
of the Saints.
"Well, well! That will perhaps come," said my Lord, kindly. "Meantime,
daughter, I am pleased with your frankness, and the simplicity with
which you have answered my questions. Father Fabian and the Superior
both speak well of you, and I doubt not you will be a credit to
this house and to your order; specially if you use your knowledge
as you have begun. See, I am going to give you this reliquary as
a remembrance, and to increase your devotion. It contains a small
fragment of the true cross, and once belonged to a very holy Abbess,
who understood the Latin tongue as well as yourself, or perhaps better.
But, my child, do not you let your gifts puff you up or lead you to
look down on others. Any one who uses knowledge in that way had far
better be without it. Remember that you have nothing which you did not
receive, and that any gifts you have belong not to yourself to serve or
exalt yourself withal, but to your God and your order."
And with that, he gave me his blessing in the kindest manner, and
dismissed me, well pleased with the interview. It is very odd that he
should have asked me such questions, however. As if I would send love
tokens to any one, let alone poor Dick, with whom I have played all my
life.
As I came out from the parlor into the passage, and from thence to the
cloister door, I saw Sister Catherine and Sister Mary Paula whispering
together. They stopped talking when I came out, and looked eagerly
towards me.
"So you have been confessing to the Bishop?" says Sister Mary Paula.
"Not exactly confessing!" said I. "My Lord did me the honor to send for
me, and asked me some questions. He has been very kind, and has given
me a precious relic."
And I showed them the reliquary. I may be mistaken, but it seemed to me
that Sister Catherine looked positively disappointed.
"That's the way things go in this world!" said Sister Mary Paula. "I
have been in this house twelve years, and nobody can say I ever missed
a fast or a service, and yet nobody gives me a relic or takes any
notice of me, or puts me into any office. Well, well, 'kissing goes by
favor,' is an old saying, as true here as anywhere else!"
"You ought to be thankful, Sister, that you have such humiliations put
upon you," answered Sister Catherine. "You know nothing is so precious
as humility. Come, let us go to our duty, dear Sister, and be thankful
that we dwell in the dust and are trampled on by the foot of pride.
'Tis a far safer and more blessed place, and we ought to rejoice to be
despised."
With that, before I could hinder, she knelt down and kissed my feet,
and walked away, looking, I am sure, anything but humble. I don't see
either why one should rejoice in being despised, since 'tis a wicked
thing to despise people.
I heard Sister Catherine summoned to the parlor, as were several other
Sisters, and Mother Gertrude as well.
This morning his Lordship called the whole family together, and made
them one of the very best discourses I ever heard in all my life. I
wish I could hear such an one every day. I am sure I should be the
better. He began by commending highly the order and neatness of the
house, the garden, and specially the library and sacristy. Then he
said he had discovered some things which gave him pain, and of which
he must needs speak. Here I saw Sister Catherine and Sister Mary Paula
exchange glances. He went on to remark that he had discovered a spirit
of jealousy and detraction, of fault-finding and tattling, which ought
to exist in no family, least of all in a religious house, and one
specially vowed to holy poverty, as we were. Then warming up—
"One would think, my children, that you should rejoice in each other's
gifts and achievements. Instead thereof I find murmurs and complaints
one of another, as if one Sister were injured because another is chosen
to execute some special office or piece of work to which she is judged
specially fitted. Sisters should be more ready to hide each other's
faults than to betray them; but here a perfectly harmless and even
religious act is reported to me as a flagrant breach of discipline."
Here again I saw an exchange of glances, quite of another kind.
"Ah, my daughters (the Bishop went on to say, as near as I can
remember), these things ought not to be. Believe me, it is not the
coarse habit, nor the sandals, nor the veils—no, nor the seclusion, nor
the enclosure, nor even the watchings, and fastings, and many prayers,
which make a true religious. All these things are good and holy, when
well used; but they may all exist in company with many things utterly
hateful to God and our blessed Lady. Let me show you in what true
charity consisteth."
Then he repeated a description of charity so noble, so full, that
methinks all Christian perfection was contained therein—as how a man
might give all his goods in alms, and perform miracles, and even become
a martyr, and yet be nothing better than a bit of sounding brass.
Then showing what made true charity—even kindness, and patience, and
gentleness, and humbleness, and thinking no evil, but hoping and
believing the best at all times.
['Twas the thirteenth chapter of St. Paul, his first Epistle to the
Corinthians which he recited, but I, who had never seen a New Testament
at that time, did not know it.]
Then with a deep shade of sadness on his kind old face, such as I
never saw before, he besought us to dwell in unity and love, that our
prayers be not hindered, but that we might strive together for our
house, our order, and the whole Church. He said we had fallen on evil
times, and there was no telling what might happen; and he advised a
special devotion to our Lady and our blessed founder, for the averting
of judgments which even now threatened us; and so at last dismissed us
with his blessing. I am sure I shall remember the discourse as long as
I live, and I hope I shall be the better for it. I know very well I
am altogether too prone to judge and to impute evil, or at the least
foolish motives to good actions, and specially to judge hardly of those
who in any way offend my taste.
[I know now, what I did not then, that our house was threatened
with total destruction. Not long before Cardinal Wolsey had founded
his college at Oxford, and he had obtained a bull from the Pope for
suppressing some thirty of the small religious houses and to endow his
said college with their revenues; and now there was talk of another
suppression. We have in our West country a pithy proverb about showing
the cat the way to the cream, which his Eminence might have remembered,
if he ever chanced to hear it.]
After mass and sermon, it being a great feast day, we had a better
dinner than ordinary, with abundance of sweetmeats and cakes, and
recreation all the afternoon till vespers, for which I was very glad.
I was cheered by the Bishop's discourse, and yet humbled by it, and
I wanted time to think it over: so I slipped away from the rest, and
with a garment I was making for Mary Dean's babe, betook myself to the
garden chapel, where, having first said my prayers before the shrine,
I sat down on a low and roughly hewn stone bench outside the door, and
began to think and work at the same time.
I know not how it is, but I can always meditate to better purpose
when I have something else to do. In our set hours of meditation I am
always possessed to think of any and everything but the subject given
us by Mother Superior. It is just then that all my working patterns
come into my head. Well, I was sitting sewing a long seam, now working
diligently, now stopping to listen to the birds and watch them feeding
their young ones (now fully fledged and clamorously following their
patient parent from tree to tree), when Amice came and sat down beside
me.
"Methinks you spend your holiday soberly," said she, after a little
silence, "working away in recreation time."
"I have not done work enough to spoil my recreation," I answered,
gayly, "but you know my way of always liking something in my hands. I
did not see that any one wanted me, so I came to this solitary place to
think about the Bishop's sermon. 'Twas a noble discourse, was it not?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Amice, and she sighed deeply.
"I thought you would have liked it," I said.
"It just added to my troubles, like everything else. Rosamond, I wish I
had never been born, or else that I had been born a milkmaid."
"I don't fancy life is easier to milkmaids than to any one else," I
answered. "I think it is as easy here as anywhere, don't you?"
"No!" said she, with a kind of vehemence. "I think it is hard,
intolerable, all but impossible. It is all a mass of contradictions
from first to last."
"Hush, hush!" I said, alarmed. "Say what you like to me, but don't
speak so loud. Remember what we heard this morning about eavesdropping.
I do wish you would tell me what troubles you so, dear. Perhaps it
would not seem so bad, if you talked it over."
She laid her head on my lap and cried as if her heart would break.
"O Rosamond, I shall never be a Saint—never!" said she, sobbing. "The
more I try the worse I am."
"What now?" said I.
"You know how I have fasted and prayed, lately," she continued. "I
have denied myself everything—even converse with you, Rosamond. I have
striven to put down all affection for one more than another, and have
associated with those I liked the least—"
"I wondered what made you so intimate with Sister Frances, and Sister
Mary Paula, and so cold to me," I said. "I was afraid I had offended
you."
"I know you were, and I made up my mind to bear the unjust suspicion
and not justify myself in your eyes, as another means of humiliation.
I have eaten only the coarsest food, and worn sackcloth next my skin,
and lain all night upon the floor—and it is all—of no use—I only
feel—just as cross as I can be!" Here she cried afresh, and I soothed
her as well as I could. "I read in the life of St Francis how the Saint
requested the bird to stop singing, and tamed the wolf," she continued,
presently, "and I thought I would try to tame Sultan our peacock;
but when I kindly requested him to leave his corn for the hens, he
wouldn't; and when (first asking the intercession of St. Francis) I
tried to induce him to give it up to me—he—he pecked me," sobbed Amice,
with another burst of grief, and she showed me her hand, all raw and
sort in the palm where the ugly creature had wounded her.
"Amice," said I, when she was a little calmer, "why don't you tell all
these things to Father Fabian?"
"I did, last night," said she; "and he told me I was making myself ill
to no purpose, and that the exercises appointed were enough for me. But
St. Clare and the other Saints used a great many more austerities than
these."
"I suppose their spiritual superiors allowed them," I said.
"Then why can't mine allow me? Unless I can be a Saint I don't care to
be a religious at all. I wish I could go somewhere else—to some of the
strict houses which Sister Catherine and Mother Mary Monica tell us
of—and then I might have a chance, perhaps."
"And would you leave Mother Gertrude—the only relation you have in the
world?" I asked her.
"A religious has naught to do with family affection, Rosamond. Ought
I not to disregard every earthly tie, if thereby I can advance toward
holiness?"
The bell sounded for vespers just then, so we could talk no more; but
I am very much puzzled. I am sure my father and my own relations must
always be more to me than any one else can be. It does not seem to me
either as if Amice were going to work in the right way to be a Saint. I
think a real Saint would be the last person to know that he was one.
When we met at supper, Sister Catherine remained on her knees in a
corner all the time we were eating, and when we had finished, she
kissed the feet of each of us as we went out, and begged our pardon for
her many offences.
"See how humble dear Sister Catherine is," said Sister Mary Paula. "She
begged to be allowed to perform this public penance because she said
she had sinned against charity."
I suppose it was very good of her, but I can't help thinking it would
have been more really humble if she had repented and apologized in
private. It seems to me that such a show of humility might make one
proud of being humble. But I dare say she is right and I am wrong.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
I HAVE heard some great news to-day, which is yet unknown to most of
the household, though they must guess, of course, that something is
going to happen, from seeing the preparations that are making. 'Twas
from no good will of mine that I knew it either, for I hate secrets.
After breakfast, Mother Gertrude requested Amice and myself to help
her put in order some tapestry. We followed her to the east end of the
house, where are certain large apartments which have never been opened
in my time. Mother Gertrude unlocked the door which separates them from
the rest of the house and threw it open. The first room we entered was
quite dark, save for certain rays which streamed through small cracks
and crannies in the shutters, and showed us long lines of dust, while a
moldy, close smell issued from the open door.
"Phew!" exclaimed Mother Gertrude. "Amice, child, step in and open the
shutters."
Amice shrank back a little.
"Let me do it," said I; and without waiting to be told, as I suppose I
should, I went in, and after a little fumbling succeeded in finding and
drawing the bolt, and opening not only the shutters, but the casement,
letting in the sweet light and air.
"Suppose we open all the casements and give the place a thorough
airing," said I.
"Yes, do, my child," answered Mother Gertrude. "Amice, can't you help
her, and not leave her to break all her finger nails." For all the
time, Amice had stood still at the door.
"I waited to be told what to do," answered Amice, coloring as red as
fire, and then coming forward without another word, she began to help
me open the rooms. There were three, of good size and lofty, besides a
closet or oratory with an altar and crucifix. The furniture had been
good, though somewhat scanty, but it was battered and moth-eaten,
and the floors were thick with dust, while something—the wind, I
suppose—had swept into curious waves and traces, as though somebody
had been pacing back and forth with a long gown on. I remarked on this
appearance to Amice.
"Aye," said Mother Gertrude, overhearing me—and looking sadly about
her, "If a ghost ever walked—Many a weary hour she paced these floors,
poor thing, softly singing to herself, or repeating Psalms."
"Who, dear mother?" I ventured to ask.
"The one who last lived here, child. Never mind, now. I trust her soul
hath gotten grace for all, and that she is resting with the Saints in
Paradise. But how we are ever going to make these rooms fit for the
Queen and her family, is more than I can guess."
"The queen!" I repeated.
"Aye, child. There, I have let the cat out of the bag, but never mind.
You would have heard it before long, at any rate. Yes, children, her
Grace being in these parts, and having somehow heard of the sanctity
of our Lady's shrine in the garden, and of our many holy relics, has
chosen our poor house in which to make a retreat, and she is coming
next week to remain a month with us."
"'Tis a great honor for us," I said.
"Why, yes, in one way it is, and yet I could have wished her Grace had
chosen some other house. I don't fancy an inroad of giddy girls from
the Court, I must say."
"The Queen herself is very grave and religious, I have heard say," I
remarked. "Maybe her attendants will not be so giddy, after all."
"Well, well, we will hope for the best. Do you and Amice set all these
chairs out into the garden to begin with, and give them a good beating
and dusting, and I will take order for the sweeping and washing of the
floors, and that being in hand, we will overlook the tapestry and see
what can be done to mend it."
Mother Gertrude was now in her element, and so I confess was I, for I
do love a housewifely bustle. We carried all the chairs and stools down
into the garden, and cutting light willow switches, we began to beat
the cushions, raising clouds of dust, and getting ourselves into quite
a frolic over it. In the midst of our labors and laughing, came along
Sister Catherine and Sister Paula, inseparable, as usual. I wonder, by
the way, how Sister Catherine reconciles her intimacy with the rule
which forbids particular friendships among the religious.
"Dear me!" said Sister Catherine, in a tone of surprise—affected
surprise, I may say—"Is it possible that this is our learned Rosamond,
acting the part of a housemaid?"
"Even as you see, Sister!" I answered, merrily, and sending at the same
time a cloud of dust in her direction (I fear I did it on purpose),
which made her sneeze and cough heartily.
"Do be careful, child," said she, pettishly. "You cover me with dust,
but of course one can't expect learned ladies to be very skilful in
housewifery. I am glad your superiors at last see the need of humbling
your proud spirits by setting you at a menial office."
"But, methinks, a mortified and recollected demeanor would be more
suitable than all this laughter!" added Sister Mary Paula. "One would
think you were making holiday, instead of doing penance."
I would not trust my tongue to answer, but raised such a cloud of dust
that they were glad to beat a retreat.
"Rosamond," said Amice, after they were gone, "do you really suppose
this work was given us as a penance and humiliation?"
"No," I answered. "I suppose it was given us because we are the
youngest in the house and have little to do, and because Mother
Gertrude likes to have us about her. Besides, where is the
mortification?"
"But it is menial work, you must allow that," she insisted.
"It is work that must needs be done, and what matters whether it be
menial or not? Come, let us set aside these chairs and bring down the
rest."
Amice complied, but there was no more sport for her. She was plunged at
once into discomfort, and began looking at herself, as usual.
"I did not think I needed any such humiliation, but no doubt Mother
knows best," said she, presently. "I don't think I put myself forward
very much."
"Of course you don't, and I have no notion that Mother had any such
matter in her head," said I. "Don't give it another thought. See how
oddly the velvet of this chair is spotted, as with drops of water."
"But I know I shall never be a Saint," continued Amice, just glancing
at the chair, but pursuing her own thoughts, as usual. "Do you know,
Rosamond, I was really afraid to enter that room?"
"So I thought, and that was what made me offer. But Amice, I do think
you need not have answered Mother Gertrude so."
"I know it," she said, in a kind of despairing tone. "O yes! I do need
to have my pride mortified. But I shall never be a Saint, after all."
"I'll tell you what, child," said Mother Gertrude, who had come upon us
unawares, in the noise we were making. "You are a deal more likely to
make a Saint if you stop thinking about yourself and turning yourself
inside out all the time. Saints, daughter, cannot be made, to my
thinking. You can make artificial flowers to look very pretty at a
distance, but if you want a real live plant, with sap, and leaves, and
flowers, and fruit, you must needs give it time to grow."
Methinks a very wise saying of the dear old Mother's, and one I shall
lay up.
We finished dusting the old chairs, and then began to wonder how we
should make them presentable, for, though the frames were good, the
covers were both ragged and faded, and there was no time to get them
covered anew. Presently Amice made a suggestion.
"You know the brown Hollands, of which we have great store in the
wardrobe. Why not make covers of that, binding them with some bright
colors? If they were nicely laundried, as Sister Bridget knows how to
do them, I think they would at least be neat and pleasant."
"Upon my word, child, 'tis a good thought, and well devised!" said
Mother Gertrude, much pleased, as she always is whenever we show any
cleverness. "We will try it on the withdrawing room, at any rate: and
'twas a good thing to remember Sister Bridget, too, poor thing, for
she loves to be of service, though her wits are small. I tell you,
children, talking of saints, that poor weakly dull thing is nearer to
real saintship than some who are far wiser, and think themselves far
holier, to boot. Rosamond, do you bring down a piece of the Hollands,
and we will see how it looks."
In the wardrobe, chancing to look out at the window, I saw Amice
reading something, which presently she put into her bosom. Some old
book of devotion, I dare say. She will never throw away a bit of
written or printed paper, if she can help it.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX.
_July 14._
WE have finished all our work, though we had to call in more help.
Mother Gertrude chose Sister Bonaventure and Sister Margaret, besides
Sister Bridget, to do the washing and ironing. They are not so bright
as some, but they are good with the needle; and as Mother says, can
mind what they are told without an argument about it. The apartments
are now all arranged. The antichamber is done in green serge, the
withdrawing room in red, and the bed-chamber all in linen, as Amice
suggested. Mother Superior inspected the work this afternoon, and
praised us for our diligence and skill.
"I fear her Grace will think them very plain and bare!" said Mother
Gertrude.
"Her Grace, Sister, does not come hither seeking for ease and luxury!"
answered Mother Superior. "Moreover, being a kind and gracious lady,
she will doubtless be satisfied with the best we have to offer. You
have done well, dear Sisters and children, and I thank you for your
pains."
"And how are her Grace's attendants to be accommodated?" asked Mother
Gertrude.
"She will bring no great train—only three attendants—Mistress Patience,
her bower-woman, Master Griffith, her steward, who will live with
Father Fabian, and Mistress Anne Bullen, one of her ladies. You will
have the two small rooms at this end of the gallery prepared for the
ladies, not changing the furniture, but laying clean linen and mats. A
little hard lodging will not harm them for a while."
"I trow not!" answered Mother Gertrude. "I am glad we are to have no
train of court dames to turn our giddy pates, whereof we have enow;"
she added, putting her hands on the shoulders of us girls, as we stood
near her, as if she had meant to include us among the giddy pates. I
expected to see Amice color, as usual, but she only smiled and kissed
the dear wrinkled hand. Somehow she has been much more pleasant the
last few days.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER X.
_St. Mary Magdalene, July 21._
OUR great guests have come, and are safely settled, and her Grace is
pleased to approve of her rooms, specially the one furnished with
linen. She asked whose was the invention, and being told by Mother
Superior that it was one of the pupils (for that is the name we young
ones go by), she sent her her thanks and a pretty Psalter, as a token
of approbation. I never was more delighted, not only for the sake of
Amice, who is far oftener blamed than commended, but because dear
Mother Gertrude was so pleased. One never can tell how Amice will take
anything, she has so many notions; but she came herself and showed the
book to me, saying how glad she was to possess a whole Psalter of her
own.
"Was it not kind of her Grace?" she said.
"Indeed it was!" I answered. "I think it is always kind in people to
show pleasure when one tries to please them."
"I believe you are right!" she said, considering. "The pot of ointment
St. Mary Magdalene gave our Lord could be no such great gift to Him,
and yet He showed Himself pleased with that, as no doubt He would if
some little child had given Him a handful of shells, or wild flowers."
Amice has seemed much pleasanter and happier these last days.
The Queen does indeed look like a most gracious lady. I should say she
must have been very well-favored in her youth, but she is faded and
worn, and looks I can't but think as if she had some settled sorrow,
which was wearing away her health and life. Mistress Patience, her
bower-woman, is a dignified, somewhat austere looking lady, and yet I
like her. She seems like one who might be very kind and faithful if one
were in any trouble. Mistress Anne Bullen is of another sort. At the
first glance I fell in love with her beauty and grace, but somehow, as
I see her more, I do not like her as well. I can hardly tell why, only
she is never quiet a minute, and seems to act as if she wished to draw
all eyes to herself. She has, too, a certain mocking expression, even
in church—indeed I think more there than anywhere—which does not please
me. But this is hard judgment on one whom I have seen but two or three
times.
Although her Grace must needs have been very weary with her journey,
she was at early mass this morning, and partook of the sacrament with
great devotion, as did Mistress Patience and Master Griffith. Mistress
Bullen did not, I suppose, from lack of preparation.
Of course this visit has set all our little community in a ferment.
That is only natural. We have so few events to mark our lives, that
small matters become great. Beside this can hardly be called a small
matter.
"Ah!" said Sister Anne to Sister Bridget, "You little thought, when you
were so busy with your chairs, who was to sit on them!"
"O yes, I did!" answered Sister Bridget, composedly, as usual: "Mother
Gertrude told me."
"Really! And you kept the news to yourself all that time! How
wonderful!"
"I don't see anything wonderful!" said Sister Bridget, who understands
everything quite literally: "Mother Gertrude told me not to tell, and
so, of course, I could not, if I had wished it."
"You are a good soul, and I wont tease you," said Sister Anne, who has
far more of generosity with her than her Sister. "But say now, Sister
Bridget, is it not a wonderful thing that a real Queen should come and
lodge under our roof?"
"No, I don't know that it is," answered Sister Bridget, considering a
little, as usual.
"You know, Sister Anne, that our Lord dwells here all the time—Father
Fabian says so—and He is much greater than any Queen."
I believe Sister Bridget will be one of the saints that grow, as Mother
Gertrude says.
_July 24th._
Her Grace has fallen into a settled way of life, and methinks seems
already happier than when she came. She keeps all the hours, and also
spends much time in prayer at the shrine of our Lady, in the garden. It
was a favorite place of my own, but of course I do not intrude on her.
I went this morning before I thought she would be up, meaning to say
prayers for my father, from whom I have not heard, when, on entering
the little chapel, I found her Grace before me. I would have retired
noiselessly, but her Grace looked round, and seeing me, she beckoned me
to come and kneel beside her.
"The place is small," said she, "but two or three devout hearts can
find room in it, and we shall not hinder each other's prayers."
So we said our prayers together in silence, but her Grace sighed many
times—oh, so deeply, as if from such a burdened heart, that I was moved
to pray for her. I am sure, "Happy as a Queen" is not a true saying, in
her case.
When her Grace arose, I would have retired in silence, but she detained
me, and placing herself on my favorite seat, she called me to sit down
beside her. I did so without demur, since she bade me.
"You are Rosamond, daughter of the good knight, Sir Stephen Corbet, are
you not?" asked her Grace.
"Yes, madam," I answered. Oh, how I did long to ask if she had seen my
father, but of course I did not speak till spoken to.
"And, do you know, little Rosamond, that you are partly the cause of
my coming here?" Then as I hesitated what to say, she continued: "I
had heard before of this shrine of our Lady's, which had been hallowed
by the prayers of St. Ethelburga long ago, and being one day in
conversation with your kinsman, Lord Stanton, I questioned him about
it. He, seeing my interest, offered to bring me his cousin, Sir Stephen
Corbet, who, he said, had a daughter in the house, and could tell me
more than himself. I remembered the good knight, and was glad to see
him again; and he coming to me, we held long discourse together. He
told me the house was of the best repute, both for sanctity of manners
and good works, though 'twas not of the strictest order—that the
Superior was a lady of good family and breeding, that the situation was
pleasant, and the air sweet and wholesome. On farther question, he also
said that you were here, and seemed very happy; and also that watching
before the shrine of our Lady in the garden, you had received from
her a most comfortable assurance concerning your mother, who had died
suddenly without the sacraments. This determined me to seek this house
as a place to hold a religious retreat, thinking that perhaps the same
grace might, unworthy as I am, be vouchsafed to me, who am sorely in
need."
She again sighed heavily, and as she looked abroad in silence for some
minutes, I am sure I saw tears in her lovely eyes. I sat quite still,
not knowing what better to do.
"Will you tell me the history of this matter, my child?" said she
presently, coming back, as it were, from the place where her thoughts
had gone. "Believe me, it is no idle curiosity which prompts the
request."
Now my night in the chapel has ever seemed to me so sacred that I
have never mentioned it save to my father and Amice, to whom I tell
everything, and to Father Fabian my confessor; but seeing the Queen's
desire. I could not refuse: so I told her all as truly as if I had
been at confession. She listened eagerly, but looked, I thought,
disappointed when I had done.
"And was that all?" she said. "Was there no sign from the Holy Image—no
light nor voice?"
"I told her there was none—it was only that some influence seemed
sweetly to bring to my mind, and open to my apprehension the words I
had so often read before."
"And was that all?" said the Queen, once more; and again she sighed
heavily. I knew it was not my place to speak, far less to instruct her,
but something seemed to bid me not hold my peace.
"If I dared be so bold, Madam," I began, with fear and trembling.
"Well!" said her Grace, smiling sweetly: "If you dare be so bold
maiden, what then?"
"Then, Madam," I answered, "I would rather have things as they are.
If I had seen a vision—if our Lady's image had bowed to me, or I had
seen a great light, or heard an angel speaking, I might afterward have
come to think I had dreamed it. But these blessed words are not liable
to any such doubt. They are in the Holy Psalms, a part of God's own
word—so I can read them when I please and feel that they must be true."
"There is much in what you say!" answered her Grace. "Rosamond, you are
a good child. If your mother had not given you to this house, I should
be tempted to beg you of your father, and keep you about me. But we
must not commit sacrilege, must we, my maiden? However, I shall make
bold to ask the Superior to give me much of your company."
So saying, her Grace kissed my forehead and walked away, leaving me
overwhelmed with her kindness. This afternoon Mother Superior called
Amice and myself, and told us that her Grace had made choice of us to
attend her on alternate days, and also to walk abroad with her when she
chose to visit any of the poor folks. Of course we made no objection.
"'Tis a great honor, doubtless!" said Amice, when we left the room.
"But I could wish her Grace had chosen some one else. However, she has
a right to command the services of all in the house, and after all,
'tis but a matter of obedience."
"Just so!" I answered, delighted at her taking it so calmly. "And if we
can give any comfort or pleasure to her Grace, I am sure we should be
glad to do it."
"But I shall not know how to address her," said Amice.
"There is dear old Mother Mary Monica sitting in the sun," said I;
"let us go and ask her counsel. She was once maid of honor to the late
Queen, you know."
So we went and sat down at the old nun's feet and laid our matters
before her, asking her to advise us how we should demean ourselves
before the Queen.
"Well, well," she said: "so her Grace has chosen you out of all the
family to wait on her. I wish the honor may not bring you ill will. But
you deserve it, for you are good maidens, good maids!" And she stroked
our heads with her trembling, withered hands. "You are kind to the old
and the simple, and that is sure to bring a blessing. Only be not set
up in your own conceits, for pride is a sin—one of the seven deadly
sins—and court favor is vainer than thistle-down and more changeable
than the wind."
"So I suppose," said I; "but, dear Mother, you know the ways of court;
will you not tell us how we should behave?"
"Aye, surely, child. Was I not maid of honor to the good Queen
Elizabeth? Good indeed she was, but she was not happy, for all. Many
a ploughman's or fisher's dam is better off than was that daughter
and wife of kings. As to behaving—just behave like ladies. Take no
liberties, even though your mistress should seem to invite them. Speak
when you are spoken to, modestly and openly, and be as silent as the
grave as to any and every word you may hear in the presence, be it ever
so light. Observe these rules, and you will do well enough. There are
no men about her Grace, or saucy pages to make mischief, and if there
were you are no silly giglets to be led into scrapes. Nay, you will do
well enough, no fear."
"Will you not give us your prayers, dear Mother?" said Amice.
"Aye, that I will, daughter; and do you give yours to your mistress,
for she has need of them. There is heart trouble in her face, poor
lady. And daughters, another thing. Be you courteous and kind to all,
and learn all you can, but do not you go making a friend and intimate
of this fine court young lady. Take my word for it, you will gain
nothing but trouble thereby. 'Tis a fair creature too, and gracious,
but giddy, and too fond of admiration. Mind, I don't say that there is
any real harm in her. But she has grown up in the French court, which
was no good school in my day, and I doubt has not improved since; and
she has had no motherly training, poor thing. She seems to me like one
who would make eyes at the blessed St. Anthony himself, and failing the
saint, she would flirt with his very pig rather than lack her game."
"Did St. Anthony have a pig?" I asked.
"Surely, child. Have you never read his life? When I was a young lady
in London—I wot not if the usage is kept up—devout persons used often
to buy lame or sickly swine of the drovers, and putting the saint's
mark on them, turn them loose in the street. Every one fed them, and
they soon learned to know their benefactors. I have seen mine honored
uncle—for my mother had a brother who was a merchant and Lord Mayor—I
have seen my good uncle followed by two or three lusty porkers,
grunting and squealing for the crusts which the good man dispensed from
his pocket. The Franciscans have ever been kind to animals; and St.
Francis loved the birds, especially. He would never have torn in pieces
the sparrow that came into church, as St. Dominic did."
"I wonder whether St. Dominic ever read that verse in the Psalter,
about the sparrow finding a nest wherein to lay her young?" remarked
Amice.
"Eh, dear, I don't know—I suppose so. He was a stern man, was St.
Dominic."
"Mother," said Amice, after a little silence, "did you know the lady
who used to live in the Queen's apartment?"
"Did I know her? Aye, indeed, child! Did I not have the principal care
of her, under the Mother Superior that was then? But that was long ago.
Mother Gertrude was a young woman then, and Mother Superior that now
is, was just professed. It was in the weary times of the civil wars, in
Henry Sixth's day, that the poor lady came here, and she lived in those
rooms twenty years—twenty years, children—and never saw a face save
Mother Superior's and mine, and latterly Mother Gertrude's, when she
began to divide the charge with me."
"What, not at church?" said I.
"She never went into the church," answered Mother Mary Monica. "There
is a sliding panel in the oratory—I know not whether you found
it—behind which is a very close grating, too close to be seen through,
looking upon the altar. Here she might hear mass, if she would, but she
never went into the church."
"But surely she might have looked into the garden, and seen the Sisters
at their recreation."
"No, child. The windows, you may have observed, are very tall, and the
lower parts were boarded up higher than she could reach. When she was
at last laid on her dying bed, the boards were taken down, at her most
earnest prayer, that she might once more behold the green trees. Ah,
well do I remember, children," said the old Mother, wiping the tears
from her eyes. "I was alone with her after that, and she said to me,
clasping her hands—oh such thin hands! You could see the light through
the very palms of them, and she had wound her finger with threads that
she might not lose her wedding-ring."
"And she said—" repeated Amice.
"And she said, clasping her poor hands, 'Oh dear sister, for our dear
Lord's sake, put me in my chair by the window, and let me look on the
face of the fair world once more.' Well I knew she could not live long,
at the best, so I even humored her, and lifted her to the great chair
by the window."
"The sun was setting in great glory, and all the hills were lighted
with a purple glow. She gazed eagerly abroad, and the very sunlight
seemed reflected from her face."
"'A fair world—wondrous fair,' she murmured, 'but the next will be
far fairer. "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor heart of man
conceived, what He hath prepared for them that love Him." There will be
greener pastures and stiller waters—even the water of life, clear as
crystal—"and the Lamb in the midst of the throne shall lead them, and
God shall wipe all tears from their eyes."'"
"Children, her face was like the face of an angel: but directly there
came a change, and I had hardly laid her back on the bed, where she
breathed her last."
"Without the sacraments?" said I.
"Even so. You see we did not think her so near her end. But I trust her
soul hath gotten grace. They buried her in the corner of the cemetery
farthest from the church. There is nothing to mark the grave save
the blue violets and lilies of the valley I planted, and which have
flourished marvellously."
"But what was her offence, dear Mother?" I asked. "Why was she kept so
long and so closely?"
"Nay, that I know not precisely, though I may have a shrewd guess.
She was akin to the Vernons, I know, and they fitted her rooms, and
sometimes sent her linen and the like, though they never came anigh
her. For my part I always thought she was infected with Lollardie, and
being of such exalted rank, she escaped burning only to waste her young
life in a prison, for she was not forty when she died. But, children,
where have you led me?" said the old nun, with a startled look. "I have
said, I fear, more than I ought."
"Do not be disturbed, dear Mother," said I, kissing her hand; "be sure
neither Amice nor I shall ever repeat a word of what we have heard."
"No, indeed!" added Amice, and then, to divert her mind, I said, "So
you think we had better not make a friend of Mistress Bullen, Mother?"
"Nay, child, I say naught against her, but what should you do with such
worldly friendships? No, no; I say no harm of her; the saints forbid!
But I like not her light-minded ways; and courts, children—courts are
slippery places. But, as I said, do you be discreet and silent; speak
only when spoken to, take no liberties, and above all never forget your
duty to Heaven and this house, and you will do well, never fear."
[I did not write this tale in my great book, but on leaves which I
hid away in the great folio of "Dun's Scotus," and this is the case
with much that comes after. In this I did somewhat fail in my duty,
perhaps, for in a religious house one's very most secret thoughts are
not one's own. Not a letter from one's dearest friend, but is read by
the superiors—nay one is not supposed to have one friend more than
another. Our dear Mother Superior was not so strict as some, but Sister
Catherine pried everywhere, even into the library, where she had no
business, for it was my charge, as the storerooms were hers. I shall
always think it was by her means, somehow, that the story of my sending
the prayer-book to Dick reached the Bishop's ears. Marry, if it was,
she gained not much thereby, to my thinking. But if I hid away the
leaves of my journal, 'twas my only concealment from that honored lady,
who then, and long after, stood in the place of a mother to me, poor
orphan maid.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XI.
_August 1._
A MOST disagreeable thing has chanced to me, but I hope no harm will
come of it. I have done what seemed me best, and I suppose I might as
well dismiss the matter from my mind, if I only could. I can't guess
how Dick could do such a thing. He must have known, if he had but
thought a little, into what an embarrassment it would bring me.
I have now been in attendance on her Grace two or three days, and have
begun to feel a little more at ease, for at first I felt stifled,
as it were. I can't think it pleasant to be with those who seem to
look upon one as being of another flesh and blood than themselves, if
they are ever so gracious. The Queen is very kind, no doubt (I don't
believe she could be otherwise), but it does seem to me more like the
kindness one would bestow on a pet dog or cat, than the good will, not
to say affection—one woman should give to another. I dare say all great
folks are so, especially Kings and Queens. They are taught to think
themselves of another race. After all, it is mine own pride, I suppose,
which makes me uncomfortable.
Mrs. Anne Bullen has been kind to me, though in a way which I like
worse than the other. I see clearly that there is no love lost between
herself and the bower-woman, Mistress Patience, and it seems as if she
wished to enlist me as a partisan on her side, casting mocking glances
at me, behind her mistress's back, whenever Mrs. Patience makes any of
the little set moral speeches to which she is given, and specially when
she utters any devout sentiment. Now, my honored mother early taught me
that these significant and mocking looks were among the worst of bad
manners; and moreover I could in this case see nothing to laugh at, so
I have been careful to give no response or encouragement to them.
This morning I had gone early to the chapel in the garden, as usual,
when entering quietly, I was surprised to see Mistress Anne, not at her
prayers, but peeping and prying about the altar and the image of our
Lady. She started a little, I thought, as I came in, and then said,
easily enough:
"So this is the sacred image which has stood since the time of
St. Ethelburga, and the fame of which has drawn her grace to this
out-of-the-way corner. What a hideous old idol it is!"
This did not seem to me the way to speak in a church, so I held my
tongue; whereat she said, in a light, mocking way, but with perfect
good humor, "Oh, you are one of the devout, Mistress Rosamond. I cry
your pardon! How shall I atone for my offence? I wonder whether news
from a certain gallant squire would do it?"
"I don't understand you, Mistress Bullen," I answered, I dare say
stiffly enough, though there was that in her manner which made my
cheeks flame.
"O no, I see you don't," she answered. "Methinks your cheeks tell
another story. Come, be honest now, and tell me what would you give
for news from this same cousin Richard, whom a few weeks at court has
transformed from a West country clown, into as handsome and saucy a
squire as may be found in all the court. Suppose this same squire,
knowing me to be bound hitherward, had entrusted me with a packet for
his dear cousin Rosamond. What then?"
"Then my cousin Richard would have done a very unwise and inconsiderate
thing, and one of which I should not have suspected him," said I,
trying to answer quietly, though my heart beat and my cheeks glowed.
"He knows my position here, and that such a step must needs compromise
me with my superiors."
"But your superiors need not know everything, simple maiden," she
answered, in her light fashion, and then dropping a packet in my lap,
she fled away, and I presently heard her singing some light French love
song in the garden.
The packet was not a large one, and it was directed in Richard's
hand-writing. I own I was tempted to open it on the spot, and I dare
say I should have done so, but just then, Sister Catherine entered. She
has greatly affected this shrine since the Queen came hither, though I
never saw her near it before. Her eyes fell on the packet before I had
time to put it up, as I certainly should have done.
"So!" she exclaimed, in a tone of triumph! "So, fair Rosamond, this
is the secret of your devotion to St. Ethelburga's shrine, is it? So
this is our young saint, who watches, and prays, and translates devout
books." Then changing her tone—"Ah, Rosamond, Rosamond, beware! You are
on the high road to destruction. How dare you profane this holy place
with love tokens, aye, and love meetings, for aught I know? Is it not
enough to draw down the vengeance of heaven not only on yourself, but
on all this house and family?"
By this time, I was quite cool and collected. "You are making a leap
in the dark, as usual, Sister Catherine," I said. "This packet has
but just been put into my hands, and if you will go with me, yourself
shall see me put it unopened into those of Mother Superior. And since
we are here together, let us remember the Bishop's sermon, and join our
prayers for that charity of which he spoke, which thinketh no evil, but
hopeth all things."
She looked taken aback for a moment, and then—"Ah, sister, sister! But
I am thankful if my chance incoming saved you from profaning this holy
place, even once. I do not doubt you will now give that package to
Mother Superior, unopened. But how many have already been received and
read here?"
At this I lost patience. "Methinks, sister, your head must be very
full of love tokens, and such matters, since you must needs be talking
of them in the very chapel itself," I said. "Perhaps, if you have
exhausted the subject, you will give me leave to say my prayers;"
and with that I withdrew myself to the other side, and knelt down to
my devotions, which I fear were too full of distractions to be very
acceptable. I was angry at Richard for bringing me into such a scrape,
and at Mistress Bullen for helping him; I was angry at Sister Catherine
for her unkind construction, and at myself, for retorting on her.
Beside I forsaw real and serious annoyance, growing out of Richard's
imprudence.
When I had finished, I rose and said to Sister Catherine, "Now, if you
will go with me, you shall be satisfied."
"If I go with you, it will be from no idle curiosity, but to save you
from committing another sin," said she, severely.
I made her no answer, and we went together, and in silence, to Mother
Superior's room, where we found her looking over some papers.
"So!" said she, sharply. "Sister Catherine, I was about sending for
you. Rosamond, what brings you hither?"
"A sad occasion, dear Mother," answered Sister Catherine, before I
had time to speak. "I bring you a sinner, but let us hope a repentant
one, and I entreat you, dearest Mother, to consider her youth and the
temptations under which she hath lately been placed, and not judge her
hardly. Rosamond hath received—from what source I know not certainly,
though I have a shrewd guess—a private packet. Yes, even in the holy
shrine of St. Ethelburga, where sacrilege hath been so fearfully
avenged before this time, she hath received a love token—how many more
I know not. Alas! The post of a favorite is ever a dangerous one, and
pride goeth before a fall!"
"What is all this, Rosamond?" asked Mother Superior, turning to me.
For all answer I told her as shortly and plainly as I could, what had
chanced, suppressing only the name of Mistress Anne, as not fit to be
revealed before Sister Catherine.
"But who was the go-between and messenger?" asked Sister Catherine.
"Methinks our young Sister's confession is incomplete. Alas, that I
should live to see this holy house fall into such disorder. But I ever
said what would come of these irregularities. We shall see no good till
we are reformed from top to bottom."
"Sister Catherine, with your leave, I will judge of this matter
myself," said Mother Superior, sharply; "and, meantime, I must needs
say, you forget yourself strangely when you take the words out of my
mouth and use such language to me, who am the head of this house.
Do you talk to me of disorders, and that when your own charge is so
misordered and neglected, as I have found it only this morning? Betake
yourself to the wardrobe and store-room, and leave them not while a
grain of dust or a cobweb remains. Let every piece of cloth and linen,
yea, every napkin and kerchief, and skein of thread be taken down and
folded anew, and the shelves wiped clean of dust and mold, and let all
presses and drawers be filled with fresh rose leaves, lavender and
southernwood. Leave not your work either for meal-time or recreation
till it is finished; and when I next visit the wardrobe let me find
the neatness and order befitting a religious house. Public penance may
be well, but secret humility and faithfulness are far better. And do
you not breathe a word of this matter to any living soul, if you would
avoid such discipline as will bring you neither comfort nor honor. I
have long borne with your carelessness in your own charge, and your
ceaseless meddling and impertinence, out of pity for your weakness; but
faithfulness to mine own duty will let me endure it no longer. Go, and
presume not to show your face either at table or recreation until your
work is finished. As you cannot well fold the clothes alone, I will
send Sister Bridget to help you; but mind, let not a word be spoken
between you, save what your work absolutely demands."
Angry as I was at poor Sister Catherine, I did feel sorry for her,
though I knew the reproof was just. The wardrobe and store-room have
been fearfully misordered of late, so that the moths have got into
everything. Sister Catherine was so taken aback that she was retiring
at once, when Mother Superior recalled her.
"Do you go without any sign?" said she. "Is that the way you receive
reproof and command?"
Sister Catherine knelt and kissed the ground at the superior's feet.
Again I felt truly sorry for her. When she was gone, Mother turned to
me.
"And you, minion, what is this I hear? Must you turn giglet on my
hands? Let me hear what you have to say on this matter, and beware you
tell me nothing but truth."
I felt my pride rising, but I put it down, and kneeling at her feet I
laid the packet on her lap with the seal unbroken.
"From whom had you this?" she asked.
I told her from Mrs. Anne Bullen.
"And who sent it?" she asked again.
I told her that the hand was my cousin Richard's, and that Mrs. Bullen
told me it came from him, but farther than that I did not know. I
ventured to add that it had but just been placed in my hands when
Sister Catherine came in. She looked at the packet, and her face
relaxed as she saw the seals were unbroken.
"Rosamond," said she, laying her hand on my head, as I knelt before
her, and speaking with great earnestness: "you were given me by your
own mother, the dearest friend I ever had, and I have loved you like a
daughter. I have ever found you open and true as the day, and I cannot
but believe you so still, though appearances are against you. Tell me,
as if you were speaking to the priest at confession. Is this the first
time you have received packet or token from your cousin?"
"From my cousin, or any one else," I told her.
"And what had Mistress Bullen to say to you?"
I repeated every word, as near as I could remember. She laid the packet
aside, and seemed to muse a little, still keeping her hand on my head.
"Well, well, I believe you and trust you," she said, finally. "Do you
leave the matter with me, and avoid any intimacy or conversation with
Mrs. Bullen, so far as you can without exciting remark. Remember that
though you have not taken the vows, you have promised your mother
and been promised by her, and that 'tis a deadly sin for a religious
so much as to entertain a thought of earthly love. It is treason to
your heavenly Bridegroom, to whom all your allegiance is due. He has
called you to a grace compared to which the highest earthly marriage is
degradation and pollution; and the day that sees you vowed to Him will
be the proudest of your life."
Much more she said in the same strain, as to the putting down all
earthly affections and desires, and remembering that I had now no more
to do with the world in any form. "You have talent and address," she
concluded, "and I would fain train you up to succeed me in this chair,
though it is a seat of thorns. The notion hath somehow gotten abroad
that the discipline of this house is relaxed and disordered. It was
that which brought us the Bishop's unexpected visit. I fear I have
indeed been lax in government, and that some irregularities have crept
in, as in the case of the wardrobe and storerooms, which could never
have gotten into such a state if they had had due superintendence. So
soon as the Queen leaves us we must have a thorough reform. Go now,
my child, and as this is not your day of attendance on the Queen, you
shall return to your translation, which I fear has fared but badly of
late."
And with that she gave me her blessing and dismissed me to my work. I
suppose I am very perverse. When Richard's packet was in my hand I was
so angry with him for his thoughtlessness that I cared only to get rid
of it; and now that it is out of my reach I would give anything to have
it again. I dare say it is nothing after all but a simple brotherly
gift, with some book of devotion or case of working tools, such as I
remember he promised to send me. I am not sorry I gave it to Mother
Superior, because it was the right thing to do; but—but I am a fool,
and there is an end. I will never believe that Richard hath become any
such court gallant as Mrs. Anne says. 'Twas not in his nature, and
if I had read his letter I should have found it just such a simple,
blundering epistle as he used to write me from Exeter. Strange, how my
mind runs on it!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XII.
_August 2._
I MET Mrs. Bullen in the garden this morning, and was passing her with
a grave salutation, when she stopped me.
"So, Mistress Rosamond, you have well requited my good-nature. A fine
lecture I have had from my mistress and your starched Lady Abbess! I am
beholden to you for bringing me into disgrace, and I will remember it,
I assure you!"
I told her that I had not meant to bring her into disgrace, and was
sorry that I had done so—that I had had no choice about showing the
package, which had brought me into danger of disgrace and punishment as
well.
"Well, well!" said she, lightly. "I meant you a kindness, and nothing
more. I dare say Cousin Richard will easily console himself. There are
plenty of fair ladies about the French court who will not scorn the
favor of a handsome young Englishman. I would I were back there myself,
for this English court is triste and dull enow, even without keeping
retreats in this grim old jail. As to my Lady Abbess, let her look to
her reign and enjoy it while she can. There is thunder abroad in the
air, and who knows where it will strike!"
"Do you mean this Lutheran heresy?" I asked. "Surely the King does not
favor it, and the Queen abhors it."
"O yes, the Queen abhors it!" said she, catching up my words with a
mocking tone. "And doubtless her Grace's influence is all powerful with
his Majesty. Nevertheless, it did not prevail to save the convents
which yonder proud cardinal put down the other day. But why should I
say these things to you? You are but a doll, like all nuns—a puppet
that must needs dance as your strings are pulled."
"Then if I am a puppet, I will strive to be an obedient one," said I;
"methinks a puppet would do little, setting up for itself."
She laughed at the conceit, in her pretty, merry way.
"Well, well, 'tis no use to be angry with you, I see, and if you
brought me into a scrape, I did the same by you, so we are even. As
for Cousin Richard, he will soon console himself, as I said. Country
cousins will be of little account with him when he sees the fair
damsels that cluster round the French Queen. No disparagement to you,
fair Rosamond!"
So we parted, good friends enough; but I cannot but be vexed with
myself for dwelling on her words. What is it to me whether Richard
consoles himself or not? I hope his simpleness will not be befooled,
that is all. If I could have read his letter I might have guessed—but
what am I saying?
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIII.
_August 12, Feast of St. Clare._
THE Queen goes to-morrow, and I am right glad on't. Not that I have
aught against her Grace. She has been a good mistress to me, and I have
learned many things of Mistress Patience, chiefly the art of knitting
stockings, with which I am delighted. Moreover, I believe the restraint
I have had to put on myself in the presence, has been good discipline
for me, who am ever apt to speak without thought.
Another privilege I have gained by my attendance on the Queen, which I
fear I shall sorely miss. I mean that of walking abroad. The Queen hath
visited the poor people in the village, and all about here, even to two
or three miles distant; and as Amice cannot walk far on account of her
lame ancle, I have attended her Grace, along with Mistress Patience,
and Master Griffith, who is a very sober, good-natured gentleman,
about as old as my father. It did seem marvellous pleasant to be going
to the cottages once more, nursing the babes, chatting with the good
wives, and making acquaintance with the children. Mistress Bullen
sometimes goes with us, and the men are loud in praise of her beauty
and kindness. I don't think the women fancy her so much, and I must say
I don't fancy her at all any more.
The Queen is very liberal, and gives with an open hand; but she is
shrewd, too, and will not be imposed upon. Roger Smith, whom she met
in the street, told her Grace a pitiful tale of his sick wife and
children, and his want of work. She said but little at the time, giving
him a small alms, but presently she turned to me and asked if I knew
anything about them. I told her that he had help constantly from our
house; besides that, we bought fish of him, whenever we could get them.
"And can he not get them as oft as you need them?" she asked.
I told her I knew no reason why he could not, as the sea was but a
few miles away, and I knew he owned a boat; but added that I thought
he was not over fond of work, so long as he could get bread without.
She made no remark that day, but the next time we were out, she asked
a little urchin who was playing in a pool of dirty water, where Roger
Smith lived. He put his thumb in his mouth and hung down his head, but
presently pointed out a very dirty cottage, with a dunghill before
the door, strewed all over with fish-heads and the like. The smell
was so bad, that Mrs. Patience ventured a remonstrance, but her Grace
persevered, and we entered the cottage. There lay Roger on the settle
bed, in what was plainly a drunken sleep. On the rude table lay the
remains of a couple of fowls, amid fish-bones, fragments of bread, and
ribs of some animal looking mightily like a deer's, while a slatternly
woman, and a bold, impudent-looking girl were just beginning to clear
away, though it was nearly nine o'clock of the morning. It was clear
there had been a debauch over night; and that, whatever else might be
needed, there was no want of food. Her Grace looked deliberately round
the room, and then turned away.
"What do you please to want, Madam?" asked the woman, in a half
servile, half impudent tone.
"I heard there was a sick woman with sick children living here;"
answered her Grace, "and that they were in want of food; but fowls, and
venison, and strong waters, and a man asleep at this time of day, are
no arguments either of poverty or honesty."
And with that she turned and left the house, without another word said,
only the girl gave an insolent laugh. Dame Lee, on whom we called
afterward, and whom we found spinning of fine thread, though she is
above eighty years old, told us that the Smiths were a shame and
scandal to the whole village—that the housewife herself was no better
than she should be, and Roger a good deal worse.
"That is the way the good Sisters get imposed upon, because they cannot
go out to see for themselves," said she. "There is no need for that
family ever to ask an alms, and the same is true of others in the
place; while those who really need help, are many of them too modest to
ask, or too feeble to reach the gate, or hold their own amid the press
about it."
"Can you direct us to some of these poor souls of whom you speak?"
asked the Queen.
Dame Lee spoke of several, and pointed out their dwelling-places to us,
and then mentioned another.
"There is Magdalen Jewell, who lives alone by herself in the moor, at
the foot of Grey Tor," said she. "'Tis a lonesome place, and perhaps
your ladyship may not care to walk so far."
"How far?" asked the Queen.
"Nay, 'tis but a scant mile, but the way is somewhat rough," answered
the dame.
"And is this Magdalen of whom you speak a widow?" asked the Queen.
"No Madam, she hath never been married. She took care of her old father
as long as he lived, and was a most dutiful and kind daughter to him;
and since his death she has bided alone, till of late that she hath
adopted a little orphan maid, one of the survivors of the great wreck
last winter. Magdalen owns the house she lives in, and a small garden
and orchard, which, with the thread she spins, makes most part of her
living. I fear she is often pinched, but she never complains, or asks
for help. She might have changed her condition many times, for she was
wonderful fair when I first knew her, and of good conditions, and she
is a well-favored woman even now; but, nobody knows why, she would none
of her suitors, and still lives alone, save, as I said, for the child
she hath adopted."
"We must see this woman, I think," said the Queen, turning to Patience
and myself. "And now, dame, can we do naught for you?"
The old woman drew herself up with gentle pride.
"I thank your goodness, Madam, but I have need of nothing;" said she.
"I have eight sons living hereabouts, besides two sailing on the high
seas, and they let their parents want for nothing. My husband is old
and infirm, but he still makes a shift to busy himself about our bit of
flax land and our orchard, and he also makes and mends nets, and with
a good husband and dutiful children, I have no need to ask help of any
one."
"Ten sons!" repeated the Queen, musingly, and methought very sadly.
"You have indeed much for which to be thankful. How long have you been
wedded?"
"Sixty years, Madam, have my good man and I lived together without
e'er a quarrel or a wish for change," answered the dame, with gentle
pride. "We have had our troubles and our pinches, specially when our
children were young, and my eldest child, my only maiden, died of a
long waste at seventeen. But we won through them all by the blessing of
God, and in all our troubles kept a stout and loving heart. I am sure
we never wished ourselves apart, or would have spared one of our little
troublesome, hungry brood. I wish all wedded folk could say as much as
that!"
"I wish, indeed, they might," said the Queen, with another sad cloud
crossing her face (and methought I saw another on the face of Mrs.
Patience). "Well, dame, since we can bestow no alms upon you, will you
not bestow one upon us, and give us a draught of milk or fair water?"
The dame was evidently well pleased, and bustled about to bring forth
her milk and cream, her brown bread and honey, and a dish of early
apples. The Queen ate and drank, and would have us do the same. Mrs.
Bullen said she was not hungry.
"Then you may eat a little to please the good woman," said the Queen,
speaking in French, and more sharply, methought, than was needful; but,
somehow, I think she is apt to be sharp with Mistress Anne. "I have
seen you make your court before now by eating when you had no need."
Mistress Anne colored as red as fire, but she obeyed without a word.
When we had eaten and drank, her Grace took from her breast a very
small gold crucifix.
"This cross, good dame, hath had the blessing of our holy Father at
Rome, and holds, beside, some earth from the holy sepulchre. I pray
you keep it as an aid to your devotion and a remembrance of Queen
Catherine; and when you look thereon, give me the benefit of your
prayers."
"There now is a woman to be envied, if envy were not a sin," said her
Grace, as we quitted the house. "Think you not so, maidens?"
"Not I, for one, Madam," answered Mistress Bullen. "What has her life
been but one long slavery? What pleasure is there in such a life—just
mending, and saving, and cooking, and washing—nursing stupid children,
and waiting on her clod of a husband. Methinks one hour of real life,
such as we had at the French court, would be worth it all!"
"And you, maiden, what do you think?" asked her Grace, turning to me.
"It was a saying of my honored mother's that love makes easy service,
Madam," I answered. "I think such a life as that of the good dame's may
be as noble and honorable in the sight of God, as that of any woman in
the world."
"That is a strange speech for a nun," said Mrs. Anne, with her usual
levity. "What, as honorable as that of a religious?"
"Yes, if she were called to it," I answered.
"And to last so long—sixty years of drudging and poverty," said Mrs.
Anne, with a shudder: "No, no! A short life and a merry one for me."
[I thought of these words many a time after that short and merry life
had come to its miserable close, and that fair head, with the crown
it coveted and wrought for, lay together on the scaffold. I did never
believe the shameful charges brought against her, by which her death
was compassed, but 'tis impossible to acquit her of great lightness
of conduct, and want of womanly delicacy, or of the worse faults of
lawless ambition and treachery against her kind mistress, than whom no
one need wish a better. Though I am and have long been of the reformed
religion, my feelings have ever been on the side of Queen Catherine.]
The next day we went across the moor, to see the woman, Magdalen
Jewell, of whom Dame Lee had told us. Mistress Anne was not with us,
pleading a headache as an excuse, and I was not sorry to miss her
company, but we had Master Griffith instead, and a serving man, who led
the Queen's donkey. The rest of us walked; and oh, what joy it was to
me to feel the springy turf under foot, and smell the fresh odors of
the moorland once more! How beautiful the world is! I can't think why
God hath made it so fair, and then set it before us as our highest duty
to shut ourselves from it between stone walls. "The earth is the Lord's
and the fulness thereof," we sing in the Venite, and all the Psalms are
full of such thoughts. But this is beside the matter.
We had a charming walk over the high, breezy moor, and Master Griffith
entertained us with remembrances of his own country of Wales, where he
says the people speak a language of their own, as they do in some parts
of Cornwall. The Queen riding before us, would now and then put in a
word to keep him going.
Presently the path dipped into a little hollow, and there we saw the
cottage at the foot of the Tor which had been our landmark all the way.
'Twas to my mind more like a nest than a cottage, so small was it, and
so covered (where the vine gave the stones leave to show themselves)
with gray and yellow lichens. A humble porch well shaded with a great
standard pear, and fragrant with honeysuckle and sweetbriar, held the
good woman's chair, wherein lay a spindle and distaff.
Magdalen herself was at work in her garden, gathering of herbs to
dry, and attended by quite a retinue. There was a very old dog lying
blinking in the sunshine, and a motherly cat with two or three
mischievous kitlings, and also a lame and tame goose, which attended
her mistress' footsteps, and now and then with hisses and outspread
wings chased away the kitlings, when they made too free. A more
important member of the party was the little orphan maid, a child of
some five years, who with grave and womanly industry, was carrying
away the cut herbs, and spreading them in the shade to dry. A row of
beehives reached all the length of the garden wall, and before them a
bed of sweet flowers and herbs, such as bees love. On one side was a
field in which fed a cow and an ass, while on the other was a small and
old, but well-tended orchard, and at the bottom of this a still, glassy
pool. Behind all, rose the gray, steep Tor, like a protecting fortress.
It was a lovely picture, and one on which I could have gazed an hour;
but presently, the woman catching sight of us, laid aside her industry,
and came forward to give us welcome, which she did I must say somewhat
stiffly at the first. But she presently thawed into more cordiality
under the charm of her Grace's manner, and remarking that we had had a
long walk, she busied herself to provide refreshment.
"Pray do not incommode yourself, my good woman," said the Queen: "we
have come but from the convent yonder, where I am at present abiding,
and this is one of the young pupils, whom I dare say you have seen."
"Not I, madam!" she answered, somewhat bluntly. "I have no errand to
take me to the convent since I desire no alms at the hands of the
ladies, and I have naught to sell but that which their own gardens
supply."
"You might go thither for purposes of devotion," said the Queen: "'tis
a great privilege to worship in a church possessed of so many holy
relics."
A strange look, methought, passed over the woman's face, as her Grace
spoke, but she made no answer to the Queen, only to press us to eat and
drink.
"And you live here quite alone, save this child?" said the Queen, after
she had asked and heard an account of the little maiden.
"Aye, madam, ever since my old father died, some ten years since, till
this child was sent me, as it were."
"But had you no brother, or other relative?" Again the strange look
crossed Magdalen's face, as she answered: "I had a brother once, and
for aught I know he may be living now; but 'tis long since I have seen
or heard from him. Our paths went different ways."
"How so?" asked the Queen.
"Because I chose to maintain my old father in his helplessness, and
he chose to bestow himself in yonder abbey of Glastonbury, with his
portion of my gaffer's goods."
"Doubtless he chose wisely!" she added, with a scorn which I cannot
describe. "'Twas an easier life than tilling barren land, and bearing
with the many humors of a childish, testy old man."
"You should not speak so of your brother," said the Queen, somewhat
severely.
"You are right, Madam;" answered Magdalen, softening. "Scorn becomes
not any sinner, whose own transgressions have been many. Nevertheless,
under your favor, I believe my brother did mistake his duty in this
thing."
"Yet you yourself have chosen a single life, it seems!" said the Queen.
"Why was that?"
"I did not choose it," she said quietly, but yet her face was moved.
"'Twas so ordered for me, and I make the best of it. I doubt not many
married women are happier than I; but yourself must see, Madam, that no
single woman, so she be good and virtuous, can possibly be as miserable
as is many a good and virtuous wife, through no fault of her own;
aye—and while she hath nothing of which she may complain before the
world."
"'Tis even so!" said her Grace; and again saw the cloud upon her brow.
I wonder if she is unhappy with her husband? After a little silence,
the Queen fell to talking of the child, and after some discourse, she
offered to leave with the parish priest such a sum of money as should
be a dower for the girl, whether she should marry or enter a convent.
Magdalen colored and hesitated.
"I thank you much for your kindness," said she, at last. "I have never
yet received an alms, but the child is an orphan, and hath no earthly
protection but myself; and should I die before my brother, he, or the
men with whom he has placed himself, would take that small portion of
goods which belongs to me, and little Catherine would be left wholly
destitute. I believe Sir John, the village priest, to be a good man, so
far as his lights go, and anything you may be pleased to place in his
hands will be safe. I therefore accept your offer and thank you with
all my heart; and may the blessing of the God of the fatherless abide
upon you."
"That seems like a good woman," remarked Master Griffith to Mistress
Patience, after we had left the cottage.
"Yet I liked not her saying about the priest," returned Mrs. Patience,
austerely. "What did she mean by her limitation—'A good man, so far as
his lights go,' forsooth! What is she, to judge of his lights? Methinks
the saying savored somewhat too much of Lollardie, or Lutheranism."
"Then, if I thought so, I would not say so," said Master Griffith, in a
low tone. "You would not like to cast a suspicion on the poor creature,
which might bring her to the stake at last."
Whereat Mistress Patience murmured something under her breath about
soft-heartedness toward heretics being treason to the Church; but she
added no more. I think Master Griffith hath great influence over her,
and if I may venture to say so, over his mistress as well; and I wonder
not at it, for he hath a calm, wise way with him, and a considerate
manner of speaking, which seems to carry much weight. It was odd,
certainly, what Magdalen Jewell said about the priest, and also about
her brother. It does seem hard that he should have gone away and left
her to bear the whole burden of nursing and maintaining her father,
and yet, as we are taught to believe, it is he who hath chosen the
better part. Another thing which struck me about this same Magdalen
was, that she was so wonderful well spoken, for a woman in her state of
life. Even her accent was purer than that of the women about here, and
she used marvellous good phrases, as though she were conversant with
well-educated people.
This was the last of our walks. To-morrow the Queen goes, and then I
shall fall back into my old way of life again, I suppose—writing, and
working, and walking in the garden for recreation. Well, I must needs
be content, since there is no other prospect before me for my whole
life. It will not be quite so monotonous as that of the poor lady who
lived for twenty years in the Queen's room, and never looked out.
I ought to say, that when we returned from visiting Magdalen Jewell, we
found that a post had arrived with letters for the Queen, and also a
packet for Mistress Anne, who seemed wonderful pleased with her news,
and with a fine ring which she said her brother had sent her.
"Your brother is very generous," said her Grace, (and I saw her face
flush and her eyes flash.) "Methinks I have seen that same ring before.
'Tis not very becoming for your brother to make so light of his
Majesty's gifts, as to bestow them, even on his sister."
"I trust your Grace will be so good as not to betray my poor brother's
carelessness to his Majesty," answered Mrs. Bullen, with an air and
tone of meekness, which seemed to me to have much of mocking therein.
"It might prove the ruin of us both."
To my great terror and amazement, the Queen turned absolutely pale as
ashes, and put out her hand for support. Both Mrs. Anne and myself
sprang forward, but she recovered herself in a moment, and her color
came back again.
"'Tis nothing," said she, quietly. "I think the heat was too much for
me. Patience, your arm; I will lie down awhile."
The glance which Patience cast on Mrs. Bullen in passing, was such as
one might give to a viper or other loathsome reptile. Mrs. Bullen, on
her part, returned it, with a mocking smile. Presently I saw her in the
garden in close conference with Amice, as indeed I have done several
times before. I cannot guess what they should have in common, and it is
all the more odd that I know Amice does not like her.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIV.
_August 14._
HER Grace left us yesterday, and to-day Amice and I have been helping
Mother Gertrude to put her rooms to rights, and close them once more.
"How lonely they look," said I, as we were going round closing
the shutters. "I suppose they will always be called, 'The Queen's
Chambers,' after this; and will be looked on as a kind of hallowed
ground."
"They will always be hallowed ground to me, I am sure," said Amice, so
warmly, that I looked at her in surprise.
"Well, well, I am not sorry they are empty once more," said Mother
Gertrude. "I trust now we shall go back to our old quiet ways, and at
least we shall have no more singing of love songs and receiving of love
tokens, within these holy walls. Yonder fair Bullen is no inmate for
such a place as this."
"Why should you think of love tokens, dear Mother?" I asked, feeling my
checks burn, and wondering whether she referred to me, though indeed I
might have known she did not. 'Tis not her way to hint at anything.
"Because Mistress Anne must needs show me her fine diamond ring, and
tell me in a whisper how it was a token from a gallant gentleman, as
great as any in this realm."
"She said it came from her brother," said I, unguardedly, and then
I all at once remembered what she had said in the presence, and the
Queen's answer. Can it be that her Grace was jealous, and that she had
cause for jealousy? However, that is no business for me.
Mrs. Bullen must needs watch her chance and ask me whether I had no
message or token for my cousin? I told her no—that in my position, it
did not become me to be sending messages or tokens: but I did not add
what I thought—that if I had any such message, she would be the last
person I should trust therewith.
"Well, well, I meant you naught but kindness," said she. "I dare say
our squire wont break his heart."
To which I made no answer.
Mother Superior gave me leave to write to my father by Master Griffith,
who kindly offered to carry a letter. When I had finished, I carried
it to her, as in duty bound. She just glanced at it, and then opening
a drawer, she took therefrom poor Richard's packet and enclosed all
together, sealing them securely, and said she would give the parcel
into Master Griffith's hands, together with certain letters of her own.
My heart gave a great leap at sight of the packet, and I must confess
a great ache when I saw it sealed up again, because I knew how sadly
Richard would feel at having his poor little letter and token returned
on his hands; and I am quite sure he meant no harm in sending them,
though it was ill considered.
The Queen gave magnificently to the Church and house on leaving, and
also bestowed presents on those members of the family who have waited
on her, mostly books of devotion, beads, and sacred pictures. She hath
also provided for an annual dole of bread and clothing on her birthday
to all the poor of the village.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XV.
_August 25._
WE have begun the general reformation which Mother Superior promised
us. I suppose, like other storms, it will clear the air when all is
done, but at present it raises a good deal of dust, and makes every
body uncomfortable.
Mother Gabrielle and Mother Gertrude still keep their old places, the
one as sacristine, the other as mistress of the novices and pupils.
But Sister Catherine is discharged of the care of the wardrobe, and
Sister Bridget, of all people, set in her place. Sister Bonaventure
takes Sister Bridget's place in the laundry, and Sister Mary Paula is
in charge of the kitchen, which I fancy she does not like over well,
though she says nothing. Sister Mary Agnes has the accounts, and
Sister Placida the alms. As to Sister Catherine, she is nowhere and
nobody, which I suppose will give her all the more time to meddle with
everybody. She has been in retreat for a week, and is still very mum
and keeps quiet. I have still charge of the library, to my great joy,
and Amice is by special favor appointed to help Mother Gabrielle in the
sacristy.
Our rules are to be more strictly enforced in future. No more exclusive
friendships are to be permitted. Silence is to be rigidly enforced,
and in short we are to turn over a new leaf entirely. A great deal of
needlework is to be put in hand directly, including new altar covers
for the shrine of Saint Ethelburga in the garden, for which her Grace
hath given very rich materials. Besides we are to make many garments
for the poor against winter.
A good many wry faces have been made over all these changes. For my
own part I like them well enough. I think people are always more
comfortable when each one knows his own place and his own work. Perhaps
I should feel differently if I had been put out of office, like Sister
Catherine, or set to work I did not like, as was Sister Mary Paula.
Poor Sister Catherine! She little thought how it was to end when she
used to talk about the enforcement of discipline. I must say, that as
far as the wardrobe goes, she had no right to complain, for she did
keep everything at sixes and sevens, so that two whole pieces of nice
black serge were spoiled by her negligence, and many of the spare
napkins were moulded through and through. I ventured to ask Mother
Gertrude how she thought Sister Bridget would succeed.
"Why, well enough, child," she answered. "Sister Bridget's mind is not
very bright, but she always gives the whole of it to whatever she does."
"I have noticed that," said I. "If she is folding a napkin, or ironing
an apron, you may ask her as many questions as you will, and you will
get no answer from her till she has done folding or ironing, as the
case may be."
"Just so; and she hath another good quality, in that she will take
advice. When she does not know what to do she will ask, which is to my
mind a greater argument of humility than any kissings of the floor, or
such like performances."
Amice and I do not see as much of each other as we used, but she is
always loving when we meet. She appears to me, somehow, very greatly
changed. At times she seems to have an almost heavenly calmness and
serenity in her face; at others she seems sad and anxious, but she is
always kind and gentle. She is much in prayer, and reads diligently in
the Psalter, which the Queen gave her. Sister Gabrielle has grown very
fond of her, though she was vexed at first that Amice was assigned to
her instead of myself; but she says Amice is so gentle and humble, so
anxious to please, and to improve herself in those points wherein she
is deficient, that she cannot but love the child. I have, at Amice's
own request, taught her all the lace and darning stitches I know, and
she practises them diligently, though she used to despise them. I am
teaching her to knit stockings, an art I learned of Mistress Patience,
and we mean to have a pair made for the Bishop against his next visit.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XVI.
_St. Michael's Eve, Sept. 28._
IT is a long time since I have touched this book, and many things
have happened. Ours is now a sad household. Out of the twenty-three
professed Sisters and novices who used to meet in the choir, but
fifteen remain. The rest lie under the turf in our cemetery. Mother
Gabrielle is gone, and poor Sister Bridget, and of the novices, Sisters
Mary Frances and Agatha. Mother Gertrude had the disease, but was
spared. Three others recovered. The rest were not attacked. The disease
was the dreadful Sweating sickness. It began first in the village,
in the household of that same Roger Smith, but broke out in three or
four other cottages the same day. The news was brought to the convent
gates the next morning by some who came for alms, as they use to do on
Wednesdays and Fridays, and produced great consternation.
"What are we to do now?" said Sister Catherine, while the elders were
in conference by themselves.
"We shall do as we are told, I suppose," answered Sister Bridget, with
her wonted simplicity.
"But don't you suppose Mother Superior will order the gates to be shut,
and no communication held with the villagers?" said Sister Mary Paula.
"I should certainly suppose not;" answered Sister Placida. "Think what
you are saying, dear Sister! Would you deprive the poor souls of their
alms, just when they are most wanted? Methinks it would ill become
religious women to show such cowardly fears."
"Beside that I don't believe it would make any difference," said I.
"Master Ellenwood, who has studied medicine, told my father the disease
was not so much infectious, as in the air. I wish we might go out among
the poor folk, to see what they need, and help to nurse the sick, as my
mother and her women used to do."
"Rosamond is always ready for any chance to break her enclosure," said
Sister Catherine, charitable as usual. "She would even welcome the
pestilence, if it gave her a pretext to get outside her convent walls."
"Sister Catherine," said Sister Placida, reprovingly, "you are wrong
to speak so to the child. Why should you be so ready to put a wrong
construction on her words? I am sure the wish is natural enough. I had
thought of the same thing myself."
"O yes, I dare say," retorted Sister Catherine. And then, with one of
her sudden changes, "but I am wrong to answer you so, Sister. It is my
part to accept even undeserved reproof with humility, and be thankful
that I am despised."
"Nonsense," returned Sister Placida, who is by no means so placid as
her name, "I think you would show more humility by considering whether
the reproof was not deserved. As to being thankful for being despised,
that is to my mind a little too much like being thankful for another's
sin."
"How so?" I asked.
"Why, in order to being despised, there must needs be some one to
despise you, child, and is not contempt a sin?"
I do like Sister Placida, though she is just as often sharp with me as
Sister Catherine, but it is in such a different way.
"Anyhow, I hope they wont shut out the poor folk," said Sister Bridget.
"Who is talking about shutting out the poor folk?" asked Mother
Gertrude's voice, coming in sharp and clear as usual, (by the way I
ought to call her Mother Assistant now, but I never can remember to do
so.) "Children, why are you all loitering here, instead of being about
your business in the house? Let every one set about her duty just as
usual, and at obedience, you will hear what has been decided."
[Obedience is that hour in a convent when the nuns assemble with
the Superior to give an account of their labors, to receive special
charges, and not seldom special reproofs as well. In our house this
gathering took place just after morning recreation. Amice and I, not
being even regular postulants, had no business there, and since the
reformation in the house, we have never attended, but we were called in
to-day, and took our places at the lower end of the line, and therefore
next the Superior, who addressed us in few but weighty words, which I
will set down as well as I can remember them.]
There was no doubt, she said, that the pestilence known as the
sweating sickness had broken out in the village, and we might with
reason expect its appearance among ourselves, at any time. She said
she had heard with sorrow that some of her children had desired to
have the gates closed against the poor folk who used to come for alms.
Such cowardliness as this was unbecoming to any well-born lady, and
above all to religious, who were doubly bound to set a good example
of courage and resignation: but she was willing to think this only a
momentary failing, which a second thought would correct; and she bade
us consider that there would be no use in shutting the gates now, since
they were opened yesterday, as usual.
Then she told us what she, with the advice of our confessor and the
other elders, had decided upon. The doles were to be given out at the
outer gate, by the proper officers, only they were to be given every
day, instead of Wednesdays and Fridays. The two distributing Sisters
were to be helped by two others, taken in turn from the professed,
to hand the things as they were wanted. All embroidery, with other
unnecessary work of every kind, was to be laid aside, and all were
to employ themselves under the direction of the Mother Assistant and
herself in making linen and in preparing food, cordials, and drinks
for the poor. If any Sister felt herself ill in any way, she was at
once to repair to the infirmary, and report herself to Sister Placida.
Finally, we were all to have good courage, to give ourselves as much as
possible to prayer, and such religious meditation as should keep us in
a calm, cheerful, and recollected frame of mind, observing our hours of
recreation as usual; and she added that nobody was to presume to take
on herself any extra penances or exercises without express permission
from her superior or confessor.
"We are all under sentence of death, dear children, as you know!"
concluded Mother, "And it matters little how our dismissal comes, so
we are ready. Let us all confess ourselves, so that the weight, at
least, of mortal sin may not rest on our consciences here, or go with
us into the other world. If we are called to suffer, let us accept
those sufferings as an atonement for our sins, considering that the
more we have to endure here, the less we may believe will be the pains
of purgatory hereafter. As for these children," she added, turning to
Amice and myself, who stood next her, "what shall I say to them?"
"Say, dear Mother, that we may take our full share of work and risk
with the Sisters!" exclaimed Amice, kneeling before her. "I am sure I
speak for Rosamond as well as myself, when I say that is what we desire
most of all, is it not, Rosamond?"
"Surely," I answered, as I knelt by her side: "I ask nothing more than
that."
"And what becomes of the Latin and Music lessons, and the embroidery,
and our learned librarian's translations?" asked Mother Superior,
smiling on us.
"They can wait," I answered.
"And surely, dearest Mother, the lessons we shall learn will be far
more valuable than any Latin or music," added Amice.
"Well, well, be it as you will!" said dear Mother, laying her hands on
our heads as we knelt before her. "Surely, dear children, none of us
will show any fear or reluctance, since these babes set us such a good
example. Well, hold yourselves ready, my little ones, and wherever you
are wanted, there shall you be sent."
That afternoon there was a great bustle in the wardrobe; taking down
of linen, and cutting out of shifts and bed-gowns, and the like, and
in the still-room and kitchen as well, with preparing of medicines,
chiefly cordial and restoratives, and mild drinks, such as barley and
apple waters, and the infusion of lime blossoms, balm and mint. This
was by the advice of Mother Mary Monica, who has seen the disease
before, and understands its right treatment. She says that those who on
the first sign of the disorder took to their beds and remained there
for twenty-four hours, moderately covered, and perfectly quiet, and
drinking of mild drinks, neither very hot, nor stimulating, nor yet
cold, almost all recovered; but that purges, exercise, hot or cold
drinks and stimulants, were equally fatal. The dear old Mother has
seemed failing of late, but this alarm has roused her up and made her
like a young woman again.
Thus things went on for more than a week. We heard of great suffering
among the villagers for lack of nurses who knew how to treat the
disease, and also because from selfish fear of taking the pestilence,
people refused to go near the sick and dying. One day Mother Superior
was called to the grate, and presently sent for me to the parlor, where
I found her talking through the grate to a woman whom I at once knew as
Magdalen Jewell of Torfoot. Hers is not a face to be forgotten.
"This good woman says she believes you were at her house with her
Grace," says Mother.
I answered that I was so, and added that her Grace did much commend the
neatness of the place and the kindness of Magdalen in taking the little
one. I saw Magdalen's face work.
"The babe hath been taken home!" said she, almost sternly. "God's will
be done! I have been telling these ladies that there are divers orphan
maids in the village (left so by this sickness), who are running wild,
and are like either to die for lack of care, or worse, to fall into the
hands of gypsies and other lawless persons, whom this pestilence seems
to have let loose to roam about this wretched land."
"Are there so many dead in the village?" asked Mother Gertrude.
"There is not a house where there is or hath not been one dead!"
answered Magdalen; "And the terror is worse than the pestilence;
children are deserted by parents, and they in their turn by children,
and 'tis the same with all other relations. 'Tis a woeful spectacle!"
"Could not you yourself take these poor babes to your home, since you
have one?" asked Mother Gertrude.
"I cannot be spared, madam," answered Magdalen: "I must nurse the sick."
"That is very good in you, and you must take comfort in the thought
that you are thereby laying up merit for yourself!" said Mother
Superior.
I saw an odd expression pass over Magdalen's face, but she made no
reply.
"And you think we might take these babes and care for them, at least
till the present emergency is passed?" said Mother.
"Nay, madam, I did but state the case to you," answered Magdalen; "'tis
not for me to presume to offer advice."
"But what to do with them, if we took them?" said Mother Superior, in
a musing tone. Then catching my eye, which I suppose ought to have
been on the floor instead of on her face: "Here is Rosamond, with a
ready-made plan, as usual. Well, child, you have permission to speak.
What is brewing under that eager face?"
"I was thinking, dear Mother, that I am used to young children," said
I. "Why could I not take these little maids into one of the rooms
called the Queen's room, and tend them there? I suppose there are not
many of them."
"I know of but five utterly friendless maids," answered Magdalen.
"Then I am sure I could care for them, with some help and advice," said
I. "They would be away from the rest of the family, and would disturb
no one; and if we were kept in health, I might teach them as well."
"'Tis a good thought, but we must do nothing hastily," said Mother
Superior. "We ought to have the permission of our visitor, the Bishop,
but he is now in Bristol, and some days must elapse before we could
hear from him, and this seems a case for instant action."
"I am sure you would say so, madam, could you see the state of these
poor babes!" returned Magdalen.
"Well, well, come to-morrow, and we will see," said Mother. "Meantime
the holy relics are exposed in the church for the comfort of the
faithful in this trying time. You had better visit them, and then go to
the buttery and obtain some refreshment."
However, she did neither—I suppose from want of time. The next day
she came again, and to my great joy, Mother consented, the need being
so great, to receive the five little maidens, who were placed under
my care in the Queen's room—Mother Mary Monica, at her own earnest
request, being allowed to remain with us and oversee our proceedings.
We began with a good washing and combing all round (not a nice piece
of work by any means), and then dressed them in clean clothes, of
which we had a plenty by us made up for our regular autumn doles. The
dear old Mother was as pleased as a child with a new doll. I can't say
the same for the poor children, who were strange, and scared, and at
first hardly to be pacified; but by degrees they seemed to find the
comfort of being clean, and by night they were all merrily at play, as
if nothing had happened to them. We made up as many cot beds as there
were children, and my own bed was moved into the room. Sister Anne also
slept in the room till she was taken sick, when Amice was allowed to
take her place.
I don't think, for my own part, that I was ever happier than when
playing with these children, or teaching them their hornbook and the
use of their little fat fingers. The oldest is about ten, a wise
motherly little maid, and a great help to us with the others. The
youngest is only three—the sole survivor of Roger Smith's family.
Considering what the family was like, we may hope her loss may prove a
gain.
There were many different opinions in the house concerning the
sheltering of these orphans. Sister Catherine, who has not had so much
to say about discipline since her dismissal from office, opened her
mouth once more to protest against the great irregularity of our taking
the babes, and the utter impropriety of their being committed to the
care of the youngest person in the house. But Sister Placida, who is
great in the history of this and other orders, and who has no objection
(or so I think) to putting down Sister Catherine, brought so many
precedents to bear against her, that she was fain to betake herself to
her humility, her usual refuge when worsted. Some were terrified at the
notion of bringing infection into the house; but in general, I must
say, the Sisters were very kind to the poor children, and very glad of
an excuse to slip away, and play with them.
It was two weeks after the pestilence broke out in the village before
it appeared in the house. Sister Bridget was the first victim. She
was taken in the night, with the heat and sweat, and, poor creature,
had no more wit than to rise and stand for half an hour or more at
the open window of her cell, till Mother Gertrude, making her rounds,
discovered her state. She was taken at once to the infirmary, and died
in a few hours, very happy and resigned, and saying, with almost her
last breath, poor thing, that everybody had been very kind to her. From
that time we had a new case or two every day for a week. Almost every
one who had resolution enough to remain quietly in bed and bear the all
but intolerable discomfort of the heat and bad odor, recovered; but
many were light-headed, and unless watched every moment, would throw
off the clothes and otherwise expose themselves: and every one who got
the slightest chill died without remedy.
It was a trying time, and one which showed what people were made of;
for the discipline of the family was necessarily much relaxed, the care
of the sick being the principal matter, and each one showed in her true
colors—very unexpected colors some of them have been. Mother Gabrielle,
who has always been rather fussy and fidgetty, and especially apt to
be scared on small occasions, and to fret over little accidents and
losses, was as calm and cheerful as a summer morning, till she was
taken down herself, when she made a most edifying end. Mother Superior,
though calm and composed, was very sad. Mother Gertrude, just as usual.
In general I must say the Sisters have behaved very well. Sister
Catherine was the most alarmed of anybody, and made herself rather a
trouble by going round asking everybody's pardon and wanting to kiss
their feet, which was not always quite convenient when one had a jug
of barley water, or a crying babe in one's arms. She wanted to help in
the infirmary, but she cried so, and was besides so unwilling to obey
orders without some little variation of her own, that Sister Placida
dispensed with her help very suddenly. At last she took to her own bed
with a kind of nervous fever; and as she was not very sick, everybody
was rather glad to have her out-of-the-way.
Sister Mary Paula was quite different. From the first she attended
steadily to her work, speaking but little, but very kind and sober
in her demeanor. One morning, when I went to the kitchen for the
children's dinner, at ten o'clock, she stopped me.
"Rosamond, did you know who it was told the Bishop of your sending a
love token to your cousin?"
"Nay!" said I. "I had not an idea, nor do I wish to know, since no harm
has come of it."
"Well, it was I!" said she, bluntly, turning scarlet as she spoke. "My
brother is the Bishop's chaplain, and when he came to see me, I managed
to slip a note into his hand, telling him the whole story, as I had
heard it!"
"But, dear Sister, how could you do that, since yourself told me you
could not write?" I asked, in amazement.
"I did not write it—that was done by another hand!" she answered me.
"But 'twas I conveyed it to my brother. I fancied, or tried to fancy,
that I was moved by zeal for religion and for the honor of this house;
but my eyes have been opened lately, and I see things more clearly.
'Twas mere spite and envy, because I thought you a favorite. I desired
to bring you into disgrace, or to cause your removal from the house;
and I beg your pardon."
"I am sure you have it, with all my heart!" said I, kissing her. "Nay,
there is naught to pardon, since all turned out to my advantage at
last."
"Yes, the stones we threw returned on our own heads!" she answered.
"And so they ought. Here, take these cakes for your brats. Do they all
keep well?"
"All!" I told her, but added that she did not look well herself, and I
feared she was working too hard.
"Nay, I am well enough," she said, "but Rosamond, will you pray for
me? My mind is distracted with all this work and worry, and I fear my
prayers are of little value."
I told her I did not believe such distraction hurt our prayers, and
reminded her of what Father Fabian had said about offering our work
and our very distractions. She kissed me again and I went my way. That
was the last time I ever saw her alive. She dropped that evening in
the chapel, and died before midnight. It seemed the signal for a new
outbreak of the disease. Three of my charge were attacked, and two
died, and of the Sisters, three within the next three days. Mother
Gabrielle was the last, and I do think she died as much as anything
from sheer fatigue. I had no touch of the disorder, though I nursed all
the children who had it, and also Sister Anne, whom we hoped at one
time might recover; but she had a relapse, I think from getting up too
soon, despite the warnings of Mother Mary Monica.
Now things have returned to their usual course, save that with the
Bishop's approbation, we have kept the three children who survived, and
have also taken in two more. Amice and I have the charge of teaching
and overseeing them, under the real superintendence of Mother Gertrude
and the nominal care of Mother Mary Monica, which mostly consists in
telling them stories, cutting out figures, and begging off from pains
and penalties. What a dear old grandmother she would have made!
I have heard but once from my friends in London, who are all well. My
father is coming home in a few weeks.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XVII.
_October 28._
AMICE, is sick—I don't know what ails her, but she has been growing
thin and pale ever since the pestilence, and now she has been obliged
to take to her bed. She does not suffer much, save from her weakness,
which so affects her nerves that she can hardly bear any one in the
room with her, but prefers to stay alone. The doctor says she is to
have her way in all things—a sentence which always sounds to me like
that of death. My heart is like to break with the thought, but there is
no help. Nobody will ever know what she has been to me.
CHAPTER XVIII.
_All Saints' Day, Nov. 2._
IT seems as if there were never more to be peace in this devoted house.
Magdalen Jewell, the woman who lived at Grey Tor, the woman who nursed
her neighbors all through the sickness, and has since been a mother to
many an orphan, and a dutiful daughter to many a widow, Magdalen Jewell
is accused of heresy, apprehended, and shut up in Saint Ethelburga's
vault, till she can be removed to a stronger prison. 'Tis a shame, and
I will say it. They have no business to put such an office on us, but
Father Fabian, who, I do suspect, likes the business no more than I
do, says 'tis done in hopes that the persuasions of himself and Mother
Superior may bring her to a better mind. They say there is no doubt of
her guilt.
Indeed, she herself denies it not, but glories in it, and is full of
joy. I heard her myself singing of some hymn, as I judged. They say
she was suspected a long time, and a man whom she had nursed in the
sickness, spying upon her at night through the window, saw her many
times reading in a great bound book she had. He giving information, the
house was searched, and the book found. It proved to be a copy of the
Scriptures in the vulgar tongue. Magdalen being apprehended, showed
neither surprise nor fear, but confessed all, and gloried, as she said,
that she was counted worthy to die for her religion. And now she is
shut up in that horrible place, and Mother Gertrude—she who has always
seemed too kind to hurt a fly, is her keeper, and unless she recants
she must needs be burned. It is utterly horrible!
And they are all so hard-hearted against her! Father Fabian says it
is a sin to pity a heretic, and so say all the Sisters. Even Mother
Gertrude, though she offers many prayers for her conversion, says she
deserves her fate, and even that the man who betrayed her did a good
deed, in thus laying aside all the ties of natural affection. But I
cannot think so. The man seems to me a horrible wretch and traitor,
far more deserving of the stake than this good, kind woman, who has
sacrificed everything to her neighbors.
My whole mind is in a tumult, and for the first time I feel as if I
would give anything to leave the shadow of this roof and never see it
again. And that dear old chapel, that I so loved, and where I had such
sweet comfort, to be so used! I cannot write nor even think. I would
Amice were well, but she is more feeble than she has been, and last
night she begged that Mother Gertrude might sleep in the room with her,
though she would not have her sit up.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIX.
_Nov. 4._
MAGDALEN JEWELL hath escaped, at the least she hath disappeared, and no
one knows what has become of her. It seems impossible that she could
have got out, as there are no means whatever of opening the door from
the inside, and the key hath never left Mother Gertrude's care. Some of
the Sisters think that the ghost or demon, or whatever it is that hath
heretofore avenged sacrilege in that chapel, hath torn her in pieces
and carried her off bodily, but they say there are no signs of any such
struggle. The very cruse of water which Mother Gertrude carried to the
prisoner last night is standing half emptied on the floor, but the
bread is all gone, so she must have eaten her supper.
Mother Gertrude, on rising, found poor Amice very much worse, faint and
exhausted, which delayed her a little. When she went to the prison,
she called as usual, but there was no answer. She looked through the
grating in the door, usually masked by a panel on the outside, but
could see nothing. Becoming scared, she sent for Mother Superior and
Father Fabian, who had the tower and vault thoroughly searched, but
nothing was to be found, save what had always been there. It is a most
wonderful chance. I don't think Father Fabian believes very much in
the demon, or he would not have searched the grounds so carefully, or
asked so many questions. Mother Gertrude takes charge of all the keys
at night, and places them under her pillow; and beside that, who was to
steal them, supposing that such a theft were possible? Mother Gertrude
is a heavy sleeper, but Amice is a very light one, specially since her
illness, and she declares most positively, that she is certain nobody
was in the room last night, save herself and Mother Gertrude.
It is all a dark mystery. Magdalen was to have been removed to Exeter
to-day, but now Father Fabian must go instead, and give the best
account he may of the matter. I cannot say that I believe very much in
the demon, any more than Father Fabian. My notion is that some friend
from outside hath found a way of helping the poor woman, or that there
is some way of escape from the tower which we know not of.
Anyhow, I am glad she is gone, and so I can't but think there are some
others, if they would say so. The tower being open, some of us young
ones ventured to explore it, and even into the vaults below. The tower
is simply what it looks to be—a structure of great unhewn stone, with
projections here and there like shelves, and the remains of a stone
staircase, though where it should lead to I cannot guess. Another stone
stairs leads down to the vault, which is perfectly dark, save for one
narrow slit at the very top, going into the garden. Here was once a
shrine, whereof the altar and crucifix still remain. A row of niches
runs all round, of which two have been built up, doubtless for burial
purposes, and there are the dusty remains of several coffins, such as
are used for nuns, beside two or three of lead and stone. 'Tis a dismal
and dreadful place, and it seems horrible to think any living being
should be confined there. Yet, the story goes that it has sometimes
been used as a prison for nuns guilty of grave offences.
I drew a long breath, when I got into the free air of heaven once more,
and I must say, I was glad to think poor Magdalen had escaped.
I could be as light-hearted as a bird, only that my dear Amice is
so much worse. She is very low indeed, too exhausted to speak; but
she lies quietly in her bed, with a look of most heavenly peace on
her face. She seems most of the time engaged in inward prayer and
thanksgiving, for her eyes are closed and her lips move, and now and
then she opens her eyes with such a wondrous smile, as if she saw the
glories of heaven open before her. What shall I do when she is gone? I
dare not think. I have been sitting by her a great part of the day, and
now Mother Gertrude tells me, she has asked that I may watch beside her
this night, and dear Mother hath given permission. I am most thankful
for the privilege, for I would not lose one moment of her dear society.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XX.
_Nov. 8th._
AMICE CROCKER, my dearest friend, is dead and buried—buried in a
dishonored grave, by the poor lady who was prisoner in the Queen's room
so long. She died a heretic, they say, without the sacraments, and they
tell me it is sinful in me to love her longer. But I will love her,
to the latest day of my life. I don't believe she is lost either, and
nothing shall ever make me think so. Oh, that last night when I sat by
her side, and she told me all!
Well, she is gone, and naught can hurt her more. I think Mother
Gertrude will soon follow, for she seems utterly broken down. She might
well say that no good would come of the Queen's visit. And if Amice
should be right, after all, and we wrong! I must not, I dare not think
of it! Alack and woe is me! I would I had died in the sickness, or ever
I had lived to see this sorrowful day!
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXI.
_Corby End, April 20, 1530._
I LITTLE thought, a year ago, that another April would see me quietly
at home in my father's house, and with such a companion—still less that
I could be quite content in such a companionship. If any one had told
me so, I should have laughed or been angry, I hardly know which, and
yet I am quite ready to confess that 'tis all for the best.
My father, my Lady and Harry are all gone to make a visit at Fulton
Manor, where is now much company to celebrate the wedding of Sir
Thomas' eldest daughter. I was to have gone with them, but when the day
came the weather was damp and cold; and as I am only just beginning to
be strong again, my Lady and I both thought I should be better at home.
Father and Harry were much disappointed, and I saw Harry was a little
disposed to lay the blame on my Lady, but a little quiet reasoning and
some coaxing finally made him own that all was for the best. So here I
am, in sole possession of the house, and for the first time I have got
out my book of chronicles.
I have read it all over, and pasted in the loose leaves where they
belong, as even should I return to the convent I shall not take it with
me. I am minded to continue it, especially as I can now write freely
and without concealment. My stepmother never interferes in my private
matters. Even Mrs. Prue, who began by attributing to her almost every
fault of which woman is capable, now grudgingly admits that my Lady
minds her own business, and is passing good-natured. In fact, only for
that one mortal sin of marrying my father, I think the old woman would
allow her new lady to be a mistress of good conditions.
I suppose I had better begin just where I left off.
The night before Amice died, she begged that I alone might sit with
her, saying that Mother Gertrude needed unbroken rest, which was true.
Amice was so manifestly near her end that Mother Superior did not like
to refuse her anything, and Mother Gertrude somewhat unwillingly gave
way. The dear Mother would have spent the whole night in prayer for her
niece at the shrine of St. Ethelburga, had not Mother Superior laid her
commands on her to go to bed and rest all night.
"Sit close by me, dear Rosamond," said Amice, "you know I cannot speak
loud now, and I have much to say."
"You must not tire yourself by talking," said I.
"It will make no difference," she answered.
"I feel that my end is very near. Doubtless what I did last night may
have hastened my death, but I do not regret it; I would do it again."
"What you did last night!" I repeated, struck with a sudden, most
strange thought. "Do you mean, Amice, that you—" I could not finish the
sentence.
"Hush!" said she. "Even so, Rosamond. I took the keys from under Mother
Gertrude's pillow (you know how sound she sleeps, especially when she
has been disturbed), opened the doors and let the prisoner free."
"But the outer door—that heavy iron door!" I exclaimed, in amazement.
"I did not open the outer door. She climbed over the wall there by the
beehives. The gardener had left his ladder close by. I wonder they did
not find it in the search this morning."
"I dare say he had taken it away before that he might not be blamed
for his carelessness," said I. "But Amice, even then I see not how you
accomplished it. We have thought you so weak."
"And so I have been," said she. "The day before, I could hardly rise
without help, and after I got back to my bed, I lay for many hours so
utterly exhausted that I many times thought myself dying. But at least
I had the strength to call nobody, for I wished above all things that
Magdalen might have time to escape. She told me at parting that with
three hours' vantage, she would defy even the King's bloodhounds to
find her; and I was determined she should lose that vantage through no
fault of mine."
"But, if you had died, Amice—died without confession and the
sacraments," said I. I knew that she had not confessed for a long time,
putting off the Father by saying she was too weak, and that it hurt her
to talk.
"I should not have died without confession, dearest Rosamond," said
she, with an heavenly smile. "I have known this many a day that there
needs no priest to make a confession valid, but that to every truly
penitent heart the way to the very throne of Heaven is open, and that
the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin. If I regretted
aught, it was that I must die without another kind of confession—the
confessing my faith openly before men. I have longed to do so, but I
shame to say it—I have been afraid. But now I fear no longer."
I was utterly dumbfounded, and could not speak a word.
"Shall I tell you the whole?" she asked, presently. "Or are you
too much shocked to hear more? You will not cast me off, will you,
Rosamond?"
"Never!" said I, finding my voice at last. "But, dearest Amice,
consider. Think of your fair fame—of Mother Gertrude and dear Mother
Superior!"
"I have thought of all," she answered; "yea, many times overt and
though I grieve to grieve them, yet I must needs speak. I have denied
Him before men too long already: I must needs confess Him before I die,
come what may. Give me some cordial, Rosamond. I must keep myself up
till to-morrow, at least."
I gave her the cordial, and after a little rest, she began once more:
"Rosamond, do you remember the day we were dusting the chairs in the
Queen's room, and you showed me one, the velvet whereof was spotted
with small spots, as of drops of water? Mother Gertrude sent you to the
wardrobe just then."
"I remember it well," I answered; "and that looking from the window
I saw you reading some ragged leaves which you put into your bosom.
I meant to ask what they were, but in the multitude of business, I
forgot."
"Exactly so!" said Amice. "I was dusting the chair, and on taking up
the cushion, which I found to be moveable, there fell out these leaves.
I took them up to read them, thinking they might throw some light on
the poor lady's history, but I had read little when I knew what I had
found—something I had long desired to see. It was a written copy of the
Gospel of St. John, done into English. Doubtless the poor prisoner had
managed to bring it with her, and had found a convenient hiding-place
for her treasure in this chair, which she had watered with her tears."
"I had read but a few words when I was interrupted; but those words
were engraven on my mind as with a pen of steel. They were these: 'God
so loved the world that he gave his only son for the intent that none
that believe in him should perish, but should have everlasting life.
For God sent not his son into the world to condemn the world, but that
the world through him might be saved.'"
"Rosamond, I was as a man walking through desolate moors and among
quaking bogs and thorny thickets, to whom a flash of light from Heaven
showed for one moment the right and safe road. It was but a glimpse.
I had no more time to read then, nor for some hours after; but that
night, in recreation, I did find time for a few more verses. By the
first peep of light next morning I was up and at my window, and
thenceforth the morning star seldom found me sleeping. I placed the
book of the Gospel inside my prayer-book, for better concealment, but
after I had once read it through, and for fear it might be taken from
me, I learned it all off by heart."
"I remember how we used to smile at your early rising," said I; "we
little thought what you were about."
"This went on for a while," continued Amice, (I set down her own words
as near as I can remember them): "and then I came near a discovery. You
know how light of foot was Mistress Anne. Well, one day, when I had
ventured, as I seldom did, to take out my book while I was waiting in
the Queen's anteroom, she came behind me and peeped over my shoulder,
and before I could hinder, snatched the leaves from my hand. I thought
then that all was lost; but after teasing me awhile in her childish
fashion, she gave me back my treasure, and said she would get me a
better book than that, even the whole New Testament, done into fair
English by one Master Tyndale."
"But mind!" she added, "I don't stand sponsor for all his notions, and
I wont be answerable for the consequences to yourself. This much I may
say. 'Twas a very learned and good man gave me the book, and he says
'tis true to the original Greek, out of which it was translated by
Master Tyndale."
"And have you read it?" I asked her.
"Not I," says she, "save only a chapter, here and there; but let me
tell you, Mistress Amice, if this book gains ground, as 'tis like to
do, your priests and nuns and mitred abbots will fly away like ghosts
and owls before the sunrising. Nay, unless some I know are the more
mistaken, the cock has crowed already."
"That very night she gave me the book, and before she left, she added
another which was sent her from London, namely Master Tyndale's
exposition of certain passages. But I cared not so much for that, as
for the other. Then came the sickness, when the discipline of the house
being so much relaxed, I had more time to read and study and compare.
Rosamond, how amazed was I to find that there is in the New Testament
no single hint of any worship being paid to our Lord's mother—nay, our
Lord Himself saying, that those who did His Father's will, were even to
Him as His own mother."
"'Tis not the right Gospel," said I. "Why Amice, only think how our
Lady is honored throughout all Christendom. Depend upon it, you have
been deceived."
"Who would dare to carry out such a deception?" said she. "Every
learned man in Christendom would be against him."
I cannot now write down all she said, as how she had found the teaching
of our Lord so much more simple and plain, than those in the lives of
the saints—how Himself had declared that whosoever did but believe on
Him, had already everlasting life—how Christ being already offered for
sin, there was no more sacrifice, but all was perfected in Him; and
much more which I did not, and do not yet understand. But she ended
by saying, that she could no longer keep silence, since the Lord had
commanded all to confess Him before men, and had declared that He would
deny all who did not thus confess Him.
"I cannot die with a lie on my lips," she said. "I dare not thus go
into the presence of my God, where I must soon stand; for God doth hate
lying above measure, inasmuch as He hath declared that all liars shall
have their part in the second death. Besides, were it not utterly base
to deny Him, who hath done and will do so much for me?"
I used many arguments with her, but could prevail nothing, even when
I spoke of Mother Gertrude and her sorrow, at which Amice wept so
vehemently, that I was alarmed; but when she was again composed, she
said she had thought of that many times, and with many prayers and
tears, but yet she could see her duty in no other way.
Oh, I cannot tell all she said. I would I could remember and set
down every word, but much has gone from me. She bade me take comfort
concerning her, when she was gone, saying that nothing they could do
would work her any real injury. She told me how happy her new faith had
made her, despite many perplexities concerning her duty—how at the last
she had seen her way clear, and what peace she had felt in the thought
that her free salvation had been provided for in Christ, and she had
but to believe, and be saved.
"What, even if you were wicked?" said I.
"Don't you see, dear Rosamond, that one who really believed in our Lord
could not be wicked? If he really and truly believed that the Lord died
for him, he would desire to do what that Lord commanded, and to be like
Him. He would know that Christ makes keeping His commands the very test
of faith and love, even as He saith: 'He that hath my commands and
keepeth them, He it is that loveth me.'"
I asked what she had done with her Testament, and she told me she had
given it to Magdalen Jewell, knowing that she should need it no longer.
"There are many things therein which I don't understand, but they will
soon be made plain," said she. "Is it not almost morning, Rosamond?
Draw the curtain and see."
I did so. Lo the dawn was stealing on, and in the east shone, glorious
to see, the morning star.
"There is the emblem of my Lord!" said Amice, clasping her hands;
"There is the bright and morning star. It is the last dawning I shall
see on earth! To-morrow. Rosamond, and whenever you think of me,
remember that I am resting where there is no need of sun or moon: 'For
the brightness of God did lighten it, and the Lamb was the light of
it.' 'They shall hunger no more neither thirst any more, neither shall
the sun light on them nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst
of the seat shall feed them and shall lead them unto fountains of
living waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'"
"Is that out of the Scripture?" I ventured to ask.
"Aye, that and many more precious promises. Rosamond, you are far more
of a scholar than I. If you have a chance, do not you neglect to study
the Scripture for yourself. And now farewell, best, dearest friend, for
I hear the Sister going to ring the bell, and Mother Gertrude will soon
be here."
Oh, that last embrace! I dare not dwell upon it! It was too much for
Amice, who fell back fainting. I called Mother Gertrude, who was
already astir, and together we revived her. Then Mother Gertrude,
seeing, I suppose, by my looks, how much I was overcome, gave me a
composing drink and sent me to bed. I was long in falling asleep, but
I did at last, and when I waked all was over. I heard afterward how
it was. Seeing that Amice was clearly near her end, the Sisters were
assembled in her room, as usual, for the last rite.
Then she spoke with a clear and plain voice, declaring that having had
her mind enlightened by Holy Scripture, and as she believed also by
light from on high, she did utterly contemn and repudiate all worship
and honor of images and pictures, all prayers to our Lady and the
Saints, and all trust whatever for salvation in forms and ceremonies,
in penances, indulgences, or any such toys; placing her hopes of
salvation upon Christ alone. Having said which, (but mentioning naught
of Magdalen Jewell's escape,) she repeated in a clear voice and with
(as Sister Placida told me,) a countenance more like a beatified Saint
than a dying heretic, these words from the Psalm: "Into thy hands I
commend my spirit, for thou hast redeemed me, O Lord, thou God of
truth."
And then sinking back and clasping her hands, she yielded up the ghost.
'Twas a terrible shock and surprise to all, for Amice had been devout
from a child, using many prayers, and as much of watching and fasting
as her superiors would permit; and nobody, not even Sister Catherine,
doubted that she had a true vocation.
Mother Gertrude fainted on the spot, and revived only to fall into
fits, to which, it seems, she was formerly subject. All the Sisters
fled from the room, and the poor body lay unwatched and uncared for
till night, when it was hastily and with little ceremony buried in the
far corner of the cemetery, by the side of that poor secluded lady, who
had, as it were, left this legacy of trouble behind her.
Sister Placida (she is Mother Placida now, having been put in the place
of dear Mother Gertrude, who is far too feeble to perform any duty,)
Sister Placida, I say, told me these things when I was recovering from
my long illness. She professed to be very hard and severe toward the
poor thing, but I could see her heart yearned over her, and indeed she
ended by a great burst of weeping, and declaring that she would never
cease to pray for the soul of Amice Crocker, adding that the prayers,
if they did no good, could do no harm, and might serve some other poor
soul in Purgatory.
I had just waked from my long and heavy sleep, and was striving to
collect my thoughts and calm my throbbing head, when Sister Catherine
burst in on me with the news that Amice was gone; and after recounting
the manner of her death, added that now one might see what came of
favoritism and book-learning, and court preferment; and thanking the
Saints, as usual, for her lowly station and for the grace of humility
which they had vouchsafed to obtain for her. She added, that as the
bosom friend and confident of that lost heretic, I should doubtless
be severely dealt by, and adjured me to make a full confession and
recantation, as in that case I might be let off with perpetual
imprisonment.
Whether any such purposes were entertained against me I know not, but I
do not greatly believe it; at any rate, they were not carried out; for
that very hour I was taken with an ague chill, which turned to a long
and low fever, lasting I know not how many weeks, during which I lay
mostly in a low, muttering delirium, knowing nobody, and talking, when
I could be understood, only of my childish life at home, and my lessons
with my mother and Master Ellenwood. Even I after the fever left me,
I was as weak as any babe, for a long time, and as I had been removed
from my usual place and put in a cell opening from Mother Superior's
part of the house, where I saw nobody but herself, Mother Placida and
Sister Bonaventure, who brought my food, I heard nothing of what was
going on in the house.
I was very much better, and able to sit up some hours and work a
little, when, one day, I was aware of a somewhat unusual bustle in the
house, and by-and-by Mother Superior and Mother Placida came to me.
"The Bishop is here, and desires you may be brought before him," said
Mother Superior. She spoke calmly, as usual, but I saw that she was
disturbed and flurried. They helped me to dress, and then supporting
me each by an arm, they led me into Mother Superior's private room,
where the Reverend Prelate sat in her great chair, with Father Fabian
standing behind him.
His Lordship, though very grave, was kind and fatherly, as when I had
seen him before. He would have me sit, after I had knelt to him on
entering, and then before Father Fabian and the two Mothers he began
questioning me about Amice. Had I ever suspected her of any leaning
toward heresy? Had we ever talked on the subject? Did I know what books
she had had, and how she had gained them?
At the answer to this last question, "that I believed she had found
a part at least of what she had, concealed in a chair in the Queen's
room," I saw the Bishop and Father Fabian look on each other. Then he
asked me whether I had been intimate with Mrs. Bullen; to which I said
decidedly no! That I did not like her, nor she me, and we kept apart as
much as possible.
"That is well!" said he. "The woman is a pest, and will be a greater."
Then he asked me of my own opinions, to which I answered that I had
never thought of believing save as I had been taught, which was quite
true at that time, whatever may be the case now. I believe I satisfied
him at last, for he kindly gave me his blessing, and said there was no
need of my being secluded longer—which by the way was the first time I
had known I was secluded at all. But he gave me many sharp and solemn
cautions about meddling with matters too high for me, which certainly
I had no mind to do at that time, being mortally tired, and wanting
nothing so much as to get back to bed.
At last I was dismissed, and Mother Placida kissed me, even with tears,
and said how glad she was all was well, and farther relieved her heart
by bringing me for dinner twice as much of all sorts of nice things as
I could eat, and a cup of her fragrant rose cordial, which I know she
treasures as if it were a draught from the water of life.
When I got about the house again—which was not for some days—I found
many, and some sad changes. Poor Mother Gertrude sat in the sun,
spinning of fine thread, and looking far more aged and feeble even than
Mother Mary Monica. She seemed hardly to know me at first, and when she
did, was so troubled and distressed that I hardly could pacify her. I
found a stranger holding the place of Mother Assistant, a hard-looking
woman, with sharp black eyes, which seemed to see everything at once.
Sister Clare told me she was a nun from the house at Exeter, and added
that nobody liked her except Sister Catherine, who was very great with
her.
I could see that the reins were tightened up in every way. More work
was done, and the hours of prayer and silence were multiplied. Sister
Clare also told me that the elder nuns were much dissatisfied with
having a stranger put over them; and that after Amice's death, the
whole household had kept a nine days' fast and devotion, to expiate the
sin of having harbored an apostate. But we had little talk together;
for Mother Assistant encountering us bade us remember the rule of
particular friendships, and sent Sister Catherine to join us, which
of course put an end to all conversation but her own. She had much to
say about the improvements in the family, and as to how it would be
impossible in future for any one to fall into such disorders as had
obtained among the younger members of the family.
I escaped as soon as I could, and went away by myself to the corner
where poor Amice lay buried. I could not be sure of the exact place,
for the ground was levelled flat and made bare for some distance.
Somebody had sowed grass seed, which was already beginning to come up;
and seeing many lily of the valley roots lying about on the grass,
I ventured to replace them in the soil, where I hope they are now
blooming.
For a good many days after I got up, I was very feeble, and fit for
none but the lightest work. I could not even embroider, because
mine eyes were weak; so I fell back upon making of cherry-tree and
strawberry-nets against summer; and on my knitting, which I found a
great resource. Also I took to learning by heart such Psalms as I did
not know, and whole chapters of "The Imitation of Christ," and found
great comfort therein.
'Twas drawing toward Christmas-tide, and very warm and mild for the
season. I was gathering such late flowers as still bloomed in sheltered
spots, to decorate the shrine in the Lady Chapel, when Mother Placida
came to tell me that some one had come to see me, and I was to go to
Mother Superior's parlor without delay. A little thing sufficed to
disturb me in those days; and I was already trembling and flurried,
when I entered the parlor. The first person I saw was my father,
looking much better in health and spirits than when I saw him last, and
with him a fine, handsome lady.
Mother Superior was present behind the grating, and looked strangely
disturbed and troubled. My father raised me in his arms and kissed me
tenderly, and then turning to the lady, he said:
"This is my daughter Rosamond, Julia. Rosamond, this lady is my wife
and your mother, to whom I trust you will pay all childly duty and
courtesy."
It could but have been something of a shock to me to know that my
father was married again. Still if I had had warning and a little time
to consider the matter, I trust I should not have been wanting in my
duty to my honored father and his wife. As it was, I am ashamed to say
that after staring at the lady for a moment, I dropped in a dead faint
at her feet.
When I began to revive, I felt the fresh air blowing on my face, and
heard the rustle of leaves above me, but a leaden weight seemed to
press down my eyelids, so that I could not open them. Kind hands were
busy about me, and I presently heard a decided but clear and cheery
voice say, "She is coming to herself!"
"I will leave you together!" said Mother Superior's voice, still
sounding as in a dream. Then came a warm hand laid on mine and a
kiss pressed on my forehead. At last I opened mine eyes. They fell
on a very pleasant object—a lady of about my own mother's age, but
perhaps handsomer, though in a different way—somewhat dark, with a
beautiful color, bright brown eyes and well-marked eyebrows—the whole
visage bearing the marks of a keen, clear-sighted but withal kindly
disposition. The dress was rich, but sober and matronly. I looked long
and as it were in a kind of bewilderment, till with a kindly smile,
"Well, child, take a good look at me!" she said. "Do I look like a
monster, or the cruel step-dames in the ballads?"
"No indeed, Madam!" I answered, feeling all the blood rush to my face
in a flood. "I am sure you look like a good-natured gentlewoman. It was
only that I was so taken by surprise, not knowing or thinking of any
such thing."
"I see—I see!" she interrupted. "Did you not know, then? Your father
sent letters more than two weeks before us."
"I have heard nothing of them," I answered.
"Poor child, no wonder you were taken aback!" said my step-dame.
"Well, Rosamond, here I am, as you see. I trust to be able to make
your father a good wife, and to supply to you in some degree the place
of the mother you have lost. I cannot ask you to give me all at once
the affection which a child owes her mother. That would be out of all
reason. What I do ask is that you will not judge me beforehand, nor
conclude that I must needs be a tyrant because I am a step-dame, but
use your own eyes and judgment and persuade your brother to do the
same. Your mother, so far as I have learned, was a saint. I am no
saint, but a faulty woman—yet I trust I am a Christian woman, and one
who means to do her duty."
What could I say to this, but that I would strive to do my part, and
be a dutiful and loving child to her. With that I kissed her hand, and
she my cheek, and we went to find my father, whom we found walking the
parlor in evident perturbation, which, however, seemed to clear up as
we entered.
"Why, that's well," said he; then changing his tone, "but what have
they been doing to you, child? Why, you are but the ghost of yourself!"
"I have been very ill, dear father," I answered. "I have had a long
fever which lasted many weeks, and from which nobody thought I would
rise again."
"And why was I not apprised thereof? You are no nun as yet, I trow, to
be cut off from your family and natural friends. What say you, my Lady?
Shall we take this faded rose of ours home, and see if it will not
revive in its native soil?"
"Indeed, I think 'twould be a wise move," answered my Lady. "Change
of air is always reckoned good in these cases, and, besides, I want
Rosamond to help me settle myself in my new home. What says she?
Sweetheart, would you like to go with us to Corby End?"
Oh, how my heart leaped at the thought of seeing home once more! I
could not speak, but I kissed my father's hand.
"Her face says yes," says my step-dame, smiling.
"And are you then so ready to leave old friends for new, Rosamond?"
said Mother Superior, reproachfully. "Your mother who gave you to this
holy house would hardly have approved such readiness to leave it."
I thought this, I must needs say, an ill-judged speech, and I saw
my step-dame's cheek flush, though she said not a word. My father,
however, answered somewhat hotly, as is his wont when chafed in his
humor:
"My daughter, Madam, is not yet professed, and is therefore under the
rule of her father."
I saw Mother Superior's eye kindle, for she too hath a spark of temper,
and I dreaded some unpleasant debate, but my step-dame interposed, and
by I know not what gentle and honeyed words of courtesy, she managed to
avert the storm. She urged my evidently failing health, her own want of
my assistance, and the need of my seeing somewhat of the world before
making my profession; and finally, I hardly know how, 'twas settled
that I should go home for a while.
I could have sung for joy. True, I felt it would be a trial for me
to see a strange lady, be she ever so well conditioned, in my dear
mother's place, and ruling where she ruled; and I had also some fears
as to how Harry would take the change, and I foresaw trouble with Mrs.
Prudence. But all was swallowed up in the overwhelming joy of going
home. Ever since Amice died, the house hath seemed to me like a prison,
as if I had no space to move and no air to breathe.
We were to leave that afternoon and travel by short stages, as my
weakness would permit. Before I left, I had a long audience with Mother
Superior, who mourned over me as over a tender lamb going forth in the
midst of wolves. She gave me much council as to how I should behave—how
I should seclude myself as far as possible from all worldly society,
specially men's society, and, above all, I should keep aloof from my
cousin if any chance threw him in my way. I was to remember always that
I was the same as a vowed and cloistered nun, and to observe always
the rules of my Heavenly Bridegroom's house, recollecting the examples
of those saints who had set at naught father and mother, friends and
children, for the sake of a religious life; and she told me of a lady,
formerly a nun in this house, who being a widow with three children,
left them to whoever would care for them, and betook herself to the
convent; and when the eldest son, a lad of some twelve years, threw
himself across the threshold of the door with tears and besought her
not to leave them, she just stepped over his prostrate body and went
her way.
Now, I had my own thoughts on this matter. I thought the woman a horrid
wretch, nor did I believe Heaven would smile on such an unnatural
mother. Moreover, it seemed to me, that in my father's house, I should
properly be under his rule, and that of my step-dame, his Lady. But I
have learned one thing, at least, in my convent education, namely, to
hear all and say nothing; and indeed I was grieved to part with her
who hath been a second mother to me. So I strove to content her in
all things, and she bade me farewell with many tears and blessings.
'Twas the same with all the mothers and sisters, save the new Mother
Assistant and Sister Catherine. These two take more on themselves all
the time, and I am much mistaken if Mother Superior does not sometime
show them that she is a Vernon, and mistress in her own house to boot.
How delightful it was, despite my weakness, to find myself once more
on horseback, behind my father, breathing the free air of the moor,
and seeing the wide world, not shut in by high stone walls and waving
trees—meeting the kindly glances and greetings of the serving-men,
feeling myself drawing nearer home with every step, and recognizing one
familiar tree and hill after another.
We stopped one night at the house of my Lady Gardener, who is a
kinswoman of ours. Here my step-dame would have me go at once to bed,
and I was glad to do so, for I was very tired, being weak and unused
to the motion of a horse for so long. Lady Gardener was full of some
nostrum which she had got from a travelling friar, and which was to
cure everything in the world; but my step-dame staved off the dose, I
don't know how, and that for a wonder, without offending our hostess;
persuading her that some of her excellent junkets and cream, with a cup
of wine whey, would be far better for me.
"'Tis not dosing you want, sweetheart!" said my step-dame, as she came
to see me eat my supper. "You are young, and ought to be able to get
well of yourself. Besides, I have no fancy for friar's nostrums and
medicines, whereof I know nothing."
In all of which I quite agreed with her.
I was much better next day, and able to renew my journey with good
courage; and now I found I had great news to hear, as namely, that the
proud Cardinal was out of favor, and like to be wholly disgraced; and
what struck me even more, that his Majesty had, after all this time,
waked up to the fact that he had married his brother's widow—that his
conscience—Heaven save the mark!—was disquieted thereat, and that he
was moving Heaven and earth, and perhaps, as my step-dame said, some
other place for a divorce. My Lady was wholly on the Queen's side, and
said some very sharp things.
"But if his Majesty's conscience be engaged?" said my father.
"Oh, his conscience—his conscience would have done better, methinks,
to have slept altogether, since it had slumbered till the Queen grew
an old woman. His conscience was easy enough till Mistress Bullen came
from France."
And here she seemed to remember my presence, for she said no more.
For mine own part her words seemed to throw light on many things, and
specially on the business of the diamond ring which had moved the Queen
so strangely.
Doubtless this was the grief which weighed so heavy on the poor lady's
heart, and for which she had sought comfort in vain at the shrine of
St. Ethelburga.
Well, we reached home in safety, and were soon settled down in an
orderly way of living, my Lady seeming somehow to establish her sway
perfectly, with very little trouble or contention. I think she is one
of those people born to rule, to whom government comes easy.
I saw but little of the process, being taken down with a new access of
my fever, which lasted two or three weeks. Harry told me afterward she
had no trouble with anybody but Prudence and Alice. Alice thought her
dignity as a matron, and the prospects of the baby were injured, by
my father's presuming to take a second wife. She thought he ought to
remain single for the sake of his children; though I don't think she
ever thought of remaining single for his sake. However, she thinks that
is different, and perhaps it may be, a little.
Harry is thoroughly pleased, and when I hear from him how matters went
on—how Prue tyrannized, and the maids rebelled, and how uncomfortable
the whole household was made, especially my father, I do not wonder. My
Lady being just what she is, I can honestly say, I am heartily glad of
her coming among us, though I can't but speculate what it might be if
my father had fancied a different kind of woman—somebody like Sister
Catherine, for instance.
Master Ellenwood was away when we came home, on a visit to his sisters
in Bristol; but he returned just when I was getting about, and in
time for the Christmas holidays. I could see that he was shocked at
first. He worshipped my dear mother as a kind of saint, and though
they did not agree on some matters—in my spending so much time on
fine needlework, for instance, when he would fain have kept me at my
Latin—yet they never had a word of disagreement, and they used to have
many conferences on religious and spiritual matters. But he quite
agreed with Harry and me that the change was a good one for my father
and the rest of the household, and he and my Lady were presently good
friends.
My step-dame is quite in favor of my taking up my lessons again when my
health is once more established. She says she has known many learned
ladies who were none the worse housekeepers and managers for that, and
she instanced my young Lady Latymer, daughter of Sir Thomas Parr, whose
father gave her a most excellent education, even to having her taught
the Greek tongue. This lady is my step-dame's great friend, and quite
a pattern in the court for her piety and discretion. My Lady says she
hopes I may some day make her acquaintance.
[So I did; but before that time came she had passed through many
strange mutations of fortune, having become first a widow, then a
Queen, then a widow again, and at last a most unhappy wife, when she
married Sir Thomas Seymor, Lord High Admiral, and died in child-bed not
long after. She wrote many excellent pieces, both in prose and verse,
two of which, "The Complaint of a Penitent Sinner," and "Prayers and
Meditations," I had a present from this godly and afflicted lady's own
hand.]
I was about again in time to witness the Christmas revels, though not
to take any great part in them. Alice and her husband were here with
their boy, and I think my Lady hath quite won Alice's heart by her
attention to the brat, which took to her wonderfully. I saw my Lady's
eyes soften and fill with tears as she held the child in her arms and
looked on its little waxen face.
"Alice, my child, God hath given you a great treasure!" said she, and
presently more softly, "Methinks fathers and mothers should have a
greater and deeper sense of God's love toward his fallen creatures than
any one else. How much must you love any one before you could give the
life of this babe for him?"
I don't think this remark struck Alice so much as it did me, but I
pondered on it many times afterward. I had often been reminded of our
Lady when I had seen a mother and babe, but it had never occurred to me
to think so much of God's love. When I repeated the saying to Master
Ellenwood, he said:
"Your new mother is a most precious lady, Mistress Rosamond. I believe
she will be a blessing to this house."
Since the Christmas revels, our time has passed quietly enough. I have
had two or three attacks of my fever, but not so severe, and seem
gradually getting the better of it. Prudence would fain keep me shut
in my chamber, on the lowest diet, and the strongest physic, because
she says it stands to reason that a fever needs bringing down. But to
this my Lady will by no means agree. She will have me eat heartily,
specially of cream, and take no medicine but a certain aromatic and
bitter cordial, which certainly does strengthen me wonderfully.
I have heard not a word from the convent since I left, and my father
will by no means hear of my going back at present. I am glad of it, for
I am very happy at home, and after what has passed, it does not seem as
though I could ever breathe under that roof again. This home life is so
sweet! I do not see how any vocation can be higher than that of a wife
and mother, blessing and profiting all about her, as certainly my Lady
does. But all homes are not like mine, I know very well—and then that
promise!
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXII.
_April 23._
OUR people have come home, with a fine budget of news, to be sure.
First the Pope hath sent a Cardinal named Campeggio, or some such name,
to join with Cardinal Wolsey, in a commission to try the lawfulness of
the King's marriage with the Queen, and there is to be a court held for
that purpose. Then the Cardinal's favor with the court is said to be
decidedly waning, while that of Mrs. Anne Bullen is constantly growing.
She is now made Marchioness of Pembroke, forsooth, and her levees are
attended by the nobles of the court, as if she were already queen; and
nobody has any doubt that she will be made queen if the marriage with
her Grace can be dissolved. The viper! I remember well the mocking tone
in which she besought her Grace not to betray her to the King! My poor,
dear mistress! No wonder she brought her troubles to the shrine of St.
Ethelburga, where I fear, however, she found little comfort.
I will never believe that was the true book of the Gospel which
Mistress Anne gave Amice. It was some work of the devil, meant to
deceive and destroy souls. And yet, when I recall that last night with
my friend, can I think all that courage, and peace, and assurance, and
triumphant joy was the work of the devil? And if so, who is safe? And
where is Amice now? I dare not think of it! Whichever way I turn all is
confusion, doubt and dread!
The last piece of news is, that my Lord is coming home next week, and
of course Richard with him. It seems a long, and weary journey for my
Lady, with her young son, and the roads are terribly unsafe. They must
be well on their way now. I must say an additional Hail Mary every day
for their safe arrival. It would be such a terrible misfortune if any
harm should happen to my Lady and her boy.
I don't exactly know what I am to do about meeting Dick. Doubtless he
will be in and out with Harry as usual, and of course I must meet him.
I have no excuse now for keeping my chamber, and if I try to seclude
myself, as Mother Superior desired, I shall annoy my father and mother,
cause a break in the family, and make everybody uncomfortable. I don't
quite like to speak to my mother about it. It might give her a false
notion that there have been really some love passages between me and
Dick, and make her think it a serious matter, which it is not.
Besides, I know just what she would say. She does not like to think
or speak of my being a nun, and indeed I think my father is coming to
mislike the notion. I believe I will let matters take their course.
Perhaps if Dick has grown the fine court Squire that Mistress Bullen
said, he will not care to pay me any attention. I do not believe it any
the more for her saying so.
The poor Queen! My heart aches to think of her sitting alone and
forlorn, while her husband goes junketting about with Mistress Anne.
His conscience, forsooth! Methinks a retreat—say among the monks of
La Trappe for him, and the Poor Clares, or the silent Carmelites for
her, would be good for both of them. If I had the ordering of their
haircloth and parched pease, methinks both would be of the hardest.
Father says it is so with every one in London. The women are all for
the Queen, and the men take the part of the King, or Mistress Bullen.
This morning the men went to Biddeford with the wagons, to bring up
some goods of my father's and mother's, which have been sent round by
sea, from London. My father and Harry went with them, to see all safe,
and hearing that there was a great chest of books among the things,
Master Ellenwood must needs go too. I was standing at the door watching
to see the last of them, when my stepmother came to me.
"Rosamond!" said she, after she had asked after my health, and found
that I was feeling as well as usual. "There is a certain thing, which
needs to be done, and this day of your father's absence is a good time
to undertake it; but I do not wish to move in the matter, unless you
feel able to help me. I mean the opening, airing, and ordering of your
mother's room and clothes. They must needs be attended to, or the moths
and damp will ruin them. Moreover, Alice thinks that she should have
her share of the clothes and jewels, and maybe she is right."
(I forgot to say, in the right place, that my step-dame had refused to
occupy my mother's private apartment, but had chosen one on the other
side of the house, where she had her dressing room, and her private
closet, in which she spent an hour every morning.)
I was moved at first, which my step-dame saw.
"I know it will be hard for you, my child," said she, "but think what
your mother would wish in the matter."
"It must be done, of course," said I, recovering myself, "and I will
help you. Dear Madam, how kind you are to me."
"And why should I not be kind, sweetheart?" she asked me, smiling. "You
are my dear home daughter, and it would sure be an unnatural mother who
did not love her child."
"And you are my dear mother," I whispered, kissing her hand, whereat
she embraced me tenderly, and we went together to open my mother's room.
All was just as it was left the day of her funeral; even the flowers I
had gathered, lay dried, and cobwebbed on her toilet-table.
"And where does this door lead?" asked my lady, after we had unbarred
the shutters, and opened the windows.
"That was my mother's closet," I answered, "where she used to spend
many hours, specially when my father was away. I suppose we had better
open and air that also."
And I found the key where I knew she kept it, in a box on the chimney.
We opened the door of the little turret room, not without difficulty,
for the lock was rusted and moved stiffly, but open it we did at last.
It was but a small place. There was an altar and crucifix, of course,
and before them on the floor lay a rough hard mat, rough enough of
itself, and strewed with sharp flints to make it the harder. On the
step lay a discipline of knotted cords, mingled with wire, and stained
here and there, as if by blood. I had never thought of my dear mother
as using such penances, and my blood ran cold at the sight of these
things. I glanced at my step-dame, and saw her face full of indignation
and pity.
"Woe unto them, for they have made sorrowful the souls of the
righteous, whom God hath not made sorrowful!" she murmured, as if she
had forgotten my presence. "Woe to the false shepherds who oppress the
sheep! 'Lord, how long, how long shall the ungodly triumph?'" Then
seeming to remember me—"Rosamond, we will leave these things as they
are, for the present, at least. Let the moles and bats prey on them, if
they will. The day may come, when we will clear them away."
I saw she was greatly moved, as was I myself, but I could hardly
understand her expression. It seemed to be anger, not at my mother, but
for her sake. She recovered herself presently, locked the door and gave
me the key, bidding me keep it carefully. Then we summoned Prudence
and one of the maids, and my Lady had all the hangings taken down and
brushed, the floors scrubbed and polished anew, all the linen and
garments taken from the drawers and chests, shaken and refolded, with
plenty of rose leaves and lavender, and sweet woodroofe, and all put in
the nicest order.
"I suppose my new Madam means to take all my dear sainted lady's
clothes to herself, as she has taken all the rest," grumbled Prue, as
my Lady left us to seek some essence of roses, which she said some one
had brought her from Turkey. "I have ever looked for such a move, but
I did not expect to see you, Mistress Rosamond, abetting her in doing
dishonor to your dear dead mother's memory."
Before I had time to answer, my Lady returned with two little chrystal
and gilded glasses, which, though tightly closed with glass and vellum,
exhaled a most delicious perfume, as if they held the very soul of the
summer roses.
"You say your mother loved roses?" she said, after I had admired them.
"We will lay one of these in her drawers, and you shall have the other.
And now tell me, Rosamond, would you like to have this room for your
own? I have spoken on the matter to your father, and he says you may,
if you choose."
I could not help casting a glance of triumph at Prue. To my surprise
and vexation she answered sharply, before I had time to speak:
"Mistress Rosamond is going to be a nun, and pray for her mother's soul
in the convent, instead of flaunting in the world. She will want no
room in this house, since she is to live in the house of God."
My Lady gazed steadily at Prudence for a moment, till the woman's sharp
eyes fell before hers. Then she said very gravely, and even gently, as
she might have checked a wayward child:
"Methinks you forget yourself, strangely."
"I beg your pardon, Madam," answered Prue, sullenly, and as if the
words had been as it were forced from her.
"Pardon is granted for this time," answered Lady Corbet, with quiet
dignity: "but beware that such a thing does not happen again. I have
borne much from you for the sake of your former mistress; but the time
may come when I shall forbear no longer."
Prue choked and swallowed, but remained silent, and my step-dame
repeated her question to me, adding: "you see, my child, the house is
not large, and with Alice and her babe coming home as often as we hope
she may, and the need of entertaining your father's friends in the
country, we can scarce afford to keep this room closed up. Still we
will make shift to do so, if the using thereof will grieve you."
I saw there was reason in what she said, and though in truth I would
rather have kept my mother's room closed, I told my Lady with thanks
that I would take it for my own, and give up mine to be a guest chamber
instead. No sooner had my Lady left the room, than Prudence burst forth:
"So this is my reward for my long years of faithful service—yea, of
slavery in this house—to be kicked out like a dog—to be insulted in
my sainted Lady's own room—the very room you were born in, Mistress
Rosamond; and more's the pity, I say, if you are to disobey your
mother's commands and bring the guilt of sacrilege on this house a
second time! Alack, alack! That ever I should have lived to see a
step-dame set over this house, to tyrannize over my Lady's children and
faithful servants, and turn the house upside down without any reason
than her own will, forsooth!"
"How can you say that, Prue?" I asked, as she stopped for lack of
breath. "Did not my Lady give her reasons for the change, and were they
not wise enough? I am sure I thought so."
"Yes—she and her reasons;" returned Prue. "I think I see my old Lady
condescending to reason, as you call it, with a child or servant.
These are new times indeed, when a young lady is to be reasoned with,
forsooth. In my day they were taught to obey."
I could not help laughing. "O Prue, Prue! What think you my mother
would have said, if you had taken up her words as you did my Lady's
this morning? And how easily you eat your own words. First you rail at
my Lady for turning the house upside down, at her own will, and then
for condescending to render a reason for her doings. Which is right?"
"And you, Mistress Rosamond, that was as good as a veiled nun," pursued
the old woman, paying no heed to my words. "She must needs drag you
from your convent into the world again, and give you cordials and wind,
and what not, while you were ill, as if every one did not know that a
fever ought to be starved. Doubtless the next thing you will be fitted
with a bridegroom, and flaunting in silks and satins—in the court
itself maybe, to catch the eye of the King."
"And then you will wish to go and keep house for me, as you did for
Alice," said I; "but I don't think I shall want you, unless you learn
to be better natured, any more than she did."
Whereat Prudence began noisily to weep, and to exclaim, "that ever she
had lived to see the day," and so on, till my Lady coming back, she
rushed away to her own dominions.
"Was that woman a favorite with your mother, Rosamond?" asked my
Lady, after we had settled that I should remove immediately to my new
quarters.
"She was so, though I could never understand why," I answered; "but I
think she blinded my mother to her faults by affecting an excessive
devotion."
"Maybe so," said my Lady. "For myself I like her not. She seems to
me both false and cruel—two faults I cannot abide. But she is an old
servant of the house, and we will have patience with her. And now,
sweetheart, I have another matter to mention to you, by your father's
desire. But you are standing too long, and we shall have the ague
coming back upon us, if we let you get over busy. Come you to my room
and rest."
My Lady would have me sit down in the great cushioned chair, and sent
her own maid for some cream and bread for me. Then she opened her
matter, which was this, that my father desired I would leave off the
plain black stuff robe and thick coif, veil and pinners I had worn ever
since I came home, and dress like other young ladies of my degree.
I never was more surprised in my life, for when I have been at home
before, my father has seemed to wish to keep the veil always before
mine eyes, as it were.
"Your father does not lay his commands on you, in this matter," said my
step-dame. "He does not wish to force your inclination, but he says you
would do him a pleasure if you would attire yourself according to your
rank. Take time and think about it. Your father will not be at home
till to-morrow evening."
That afternoon the change was accomplished, and I lay down to sleep in
my dear mother's room and bed. Just as I was undressing, who should
look in upon me, but Prudence herself.
"So you are here!" said she, with an ominously solemn face. "You are
not wanting in courage, that must needs be said of you. I have not
slighted my dead Lady's commands, nor done despite to her memory, nor
broken my convent vows, and yet I would not pass a night here for all
my Lady's jewels. I hope all may be well with you in the morning,
that's all."
"And so do I!" I answered. "Why not?"
"And suppose you are waked in the night by the touch of a cold hand,
and should see your mother's ghost, surrounded by the flames of
purgatory or worse, and should hear her voice reproaching you for your
breach of your vows! Or suppose you should see the demon which haunts
yon woods—which carried off the Lady Elgitha from her lover, and—"
"Or suppose you should shut the door and mind your own business!" said
I, all the more vexed because I was a little scared. "In the first
place, I have broken no vows, because I have made none. If my dear
mother should come to visit me, it would be to bless, or at worst to
reprove, and not to curse; and she would come surrounded, not by flames
of purgatory, but by airs from Paradise, and I should rejoice to see
her. And as for the demon out yonder, he has no power save over those
who venture into his domains after nightfall, nor then, unless they go
on a bad errand. Methinks you were best to depart before my Lady comes
to see me in bed," (as she has always done since my illness.)
Prue took the hint, and was departing, when she nearly ran over my Lady.
"What are you doing here?" says my Lady, not without some sharpness.
"If it please you, Madam, I meant no offence!" said Prudence, demurely.
"I came but to see that Mistress Rosamond had a night light, in case
anything should happen before morning;" and casting a parting glance
full of anger at us both, she courtesied and departed.
"Was that really her errand?" asked my Lady.
"Hardly, I think," said I. "I believe she only came to scare me, if she
could;" and then I recounted what she had said. My Lady seemed much
moved.
"Aye, that is always the way—flames, and devils, and all kinds of
things, to scare the little ones whom He bade come to himself," she
murmured, as if to herself; then to me, "Dear child, be not you scared
by these fables. Think not of your mother as tormented in flames of
purgatory, or worse, because she married a worthy man and lived and
died a faithful Christian wife and mother. Believe as I do, that they
who put their trust in the Lord shall never taste the bitterness of
death, but that being absent from the body they are at home with the
Lord. 'They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither
shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb shall lead them
to fountains of living water, and God shall wipe away all tears from
their eyes.'"
I had heard these words before, from one who found comfort in them when
she was void of all human consolation, and they came to me like an echo
of her voice.
"I do not fear, dear Madam!" I answered her, and then I told her how
I had before been comforted concerning my mother in my night watch.
After she had bade me good-night, with a kiss and a blessing, I said
my prayers once more, repeated the ninety-first Psalm, and lay down to
rest. I wont deny that I felt a little shiver of fear when I woke once
in the night and saw the waning moon shining in at the casement, and
heard the mournful calling of the sea, and the sighing of the wind in
the trees, while an owl whooped dismally in the wood; but I remembered
my Psalm, said my prayers, and falling asleep, did not wake till dawn.
Touching this change of dress—I have been considering the matter, and
it does seem to me as if I ought to pleasure my father therein. I can
honestly say the change will be no pleasure to me. I was never fond of
dress. I care not the trouble of it, and am quite content with my stuff
gown and linen pinners, which cost me but little time and thought.
Moreover, it was the dress in which my dear mother liked best to see
me. I know Mother Superior would say 'twas my duty to cast aside all
considerations of earthly affection, like that woman she told me of
who left her children to go to the convent. But my mother herself was
wont to please my father in all things, and she taught us children to
do so. I am quite sure Father John would say the same, but I can't
ask him, because he is in Exeter, and will not be at home till night.
My Lady has had my dress made all ready for me—a gown of fine brown
woolen stuff, such as she wears herself, with large sleeves and linen
undersleeves, garnished with French lace, a petticoat of blue damask
and a hood of the new fashion, made of blue silk and garnished with
lace like the sleeves; also a long tasseled girdle and wide-falling
band of lace or lawn, but no mufflers or pinners, and no veil. It lies
on my bed at this moment, and I must decide, because my Lady would have
me put it on to meet my father.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXIII.
I HAVE really put on my dress, my Lady's gentlewoman, Mistress
Warner, arranging it for me, which she did with many exclamations at
the improvement in my appearance. I must needs own that it is very
becoming, but I do not as yet feel at home therein. When all was
complete, I went to my Lady's room. She was much pleased.
"Be sure, maiden, you will lose nothing by thus giving up your will
to your father," said she, kissing my cheek: "I know very well, that
there is no vanity in your heart, but that 'tis a real taking up of
the cross, for you to leave off the dress you liked, to pleasure your
parents, and the self-denial will have its reward."
"I never thought of any self-denial!" said I.
"I dare say you did not," she answered, smiling, and arranging my hood.
I hope I shall not dislike to leave off all this finery when the time
comes for me to return to the convent. I am afraid I have begun to
dread that return already; but as my Lady says, "Sufficient unto the
time is the evil thereof." That seems to me a wondrous wise saying. I
wonder where she found it, or whether it is her own?
When I met Prudence she raised up her hands and eyes: "Lo, did I not
say as much? The silks and satins have come already—next thing my Lady
will find some needy kinsman of her own to whom my Lady Rosamond's
portion will be a convenience, and then comes a wedding—and then—Well,
well, when it comes, maybe my words will be believed."
"Maybe so!" I answered. "And maybe we shall catch larks when the sky
falls, but I doubt it."
"Mrs. Prue hates weddings because she could never get a goodman
herself!" said Master Lee, our old house steward, between whom and
Prudence is perpetual war. "For my part, I ever said Mistress Rosamond
was too good for a cloister. There are plenty of sallow cheeks and
vinegar faces, that would be all the better for a veil!"
Whereat Prudence turned on him like a fury, and I retreated from the
war of words to mine own room.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXIV.
_April 25, Sunday._
MY father and brother came home safely, and my Lady and I met them in
the hall.
"Heyday, what lady have we here?" cried my father, cheerily. "Here, let
me look at you. I must say she becomes her change of dress well, does
she not, Harry?"
"She is liker my mother than ever," said Harry in his blunt way, and
then to mend the matter, "I crave your pardon, Madam."
"For what?" asked my Lady, smiling on him kindly; whereat Harry blushed
worse than ever, and retreated behind my father.
"Well, well, child, you are a good maid, and shall lose nothing by thus
pleasuring your parents," said my father, patting my cheek as he spoke.
"Your new ornaments show fairly on you, and as Harry says, make you
more like than ever to your mother."
"Mistress Rosamond has inherited one of her mother's ornaments, worth
more than gold or jewels," observed Master Ellenwood: "even that
ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is beyond all price."
I could not but be pleased and pained too, for I knew very well that I
did not deserve my tutor's praise. I know that I have anything but a
meek spirit.
This morning we all went to church as usual, in the village. Father
John has come home, and a strange priest with him—a Franciscan friar. I
tried to think of nothing but my duty, but, truth to tell, my mind was
a little distracted by my change of dress, and the thought that people
were observing me. I was presently, however, effectually diverted by
an announcement made from the altar by Father John—namely, that 'twas
the King's pleasure that for the better instruction of the people in
faith and duty, the Credo and the Ten Commandments should henceforth
be said in English! This is a change indeed! I saw my Lady and Master
Ellenwood exchange glances, and many wondering looks passed among the
congregation. I thought Father John had no great love to his task, and
the strange priest looked black as night. There was no sermon, and we
were presently walking home again over the green.
My father stopped to speak to some one, and Harry gave his hand to my
Lady to lead her, blushing like a rose as he did so, but as usual she
put him at his ease presently, and he walked by her side in silence,
till she said playfully:
"A groat for your thoughts, my fair son!"
Harry answered without any of his usual hesitation:
"I am thinking, Madam, about that second commandment—about the images,
I mean. Why then do we have images in the churches?"
"Master Ellenwood, you are the scholar," said my Lady, turning to him.
"Will you resolve us our doubt? Why do we have images in the churches?"
"The doctors would say that it is to excite our devotion by the
presence of visible representations—not for that the image should be
worshipped," answered Master Ellenwood; "but it may perhaps be doubted
how far this distinction is kept in mind—specially among the more
ignorant."
"But the command says, 'Thou shalt not bow down to them,'" persisted
Harry; "and every one does that. I don't understand it, for my part."
"There are more than you, in the same puzzle, my boy," said Master
Ellenwood, smiling rather sadly.
"And you, Master Ellenwood, what think you of this new move of the
King?" asked my Lady.
"I think, Madam, that the man who would keep out the sea, does not well
to make a hole in the dyke—no, though the hole be no larger than his
little finger," said Master Ellenwood, gravely.
I think Master Ellenwood much changed since I have been away. He
seems graver than his wont, and his face hath oftentimes a deep shade
of sadness. He is absent-minded also, even at our lessons, and will
sometimes let Harry make the most dreadful mistakes in his quantities,
without taking any notice of them.
But Harry's Latin will soon come to an end. It is quite settled now
that he is to sail from Plymouth with Captain Will Hawkins, who is
going to the Brazils, on an exploring and trading voyage. Harry is
wild with delight. He has the true Corbet love of sea-wandering, and
has already been two voyages, one to the Levant, and one to the North
seas; so it is not mere ignorant longing for he knows not what. It
seems hard to me, and scarcely right, that the only son of our house
should be exposed to such perils as that of a voyage to an unknown and
savage coast, where he may be taken and held in lifelong bondage by
the barbarians, or still worse by the Spaniards, or devoured by wild
beasts, or stricken by fever. But my father hath given his consent, so
I suppose there is no help. My father kindly condescended to give me
his reasons.
"The boy hath the salt drop in his blood, like all his race. You could
no more keep him at home, than you could keep a duck from the water;
and if you could he would be good for naught. Not but Harry is a
dutiful son, and would give up his longing to please me, if I insisted;
but he would be unhappy and restless. As for danger, I reek not so much
of that, since danger lurks everywhere. The merchant who never laid
hand to sword, may be slain by robbers in his own shop, and the lazy
monk may die of a surfeit in the cloister. I know Will Hawkins well,
for an honest, faithful and good-natured gentleman—albeit something of
the roughest, as these sea dogs are apt to be. He hath been my friend
of many years standing, and I doubt not will do well by Harry, and I
shall feel far safer about the boy than if he were in the Court, like
poor Dick."
All this is true without doubt, nevertheless, it will be hard to
let Harry go. Prudence will have it that the scheme is of my Lady's
concoction; whereas my Lady hath been against it from the first; though
since my father decided, she has done her best to forward Harry's
preparations. Harry, for his part, adores his stepmother with a kind of
dumb worship, and hangs about her as his old deerhound Oscar does about
them both. He hath formally presented Oscar to my Lady, and she hath
promised to care for him. Only that I think her influence so good, I
could almost find it in my heart to be jealous.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXV.
_April 30._
MY Lord and Lady have come, with all their train, and we have been up
to the great house to pay our visit. Having never seen my Lady Stanton,
I was naturally curious about her. My mother told me that she was very
beautiful, and gentle, and highly accomplished; but I was as much
amazed at her beauty as if I had never heard a word. Truly I never saw
anything so lovely. She made me think of nothing so much as of a white
musk rose, fairest of flowers to look upon, and shedding sweetness
around; but alas, too soon fading and easily shaken to pieces, even
in its freshest bloom. She was overjoyed to see my stepmother, and
welcomed me with a grace and warmth which made me feel at home with her
directly. She would have us stay and spend the day with her, and sent
for my father and Harry to come to supper.
Of course she and my mother had a hundred matters to discuss, of which
I knew nothing; but I was quite content to listen while they talked
over the news of the Court, especially when the matter of the King's
divorce came up. It seems quite decided that there is to be a divorce
by some means or other, though the Pope throws difficulties in the way.
Meantime my dear Mistress is no more treated by the King as his wife,
and hardly hath she honor as Queen, while Mistress Anne, forsooth, hath
her ladies in waiting, and her levees, with the King dining with her
and making hunting and hawking parties with her, and all paying their
court, as though she were already Queen. It made my blood boil but to
hear of her, and my mother was sterner than ever I saw or heard her, in
reprobation of Mistress Anne's treacherous and light conduct.
"Yet they say my Lady Marchioness is well affected toward the new
doctrines, and those who hold them!" said my Lady.
"So much the worse for the doctrines," answered my mother. "The truth
hath no such enemies as they who hold it in unrighteousness. But what
of the new doctrines?"
"They spread wondrously, no one knows how!" answered my Lady. "Copies
of Master Tyndale's New Testament make their way in all quarters, even
in the Court itself; and all men's minds are in a ferment. The Greek
learning is more in favor than ever in some quarters, and more bitterly
opposed in others. We heard a furious sermon against it in Salisbury,
where we stayed a few days. The preaching friar said that Hebrew was
the language of unbelieving Jews, and Greek of idolatrous infidels and
schismatics; while Latin was the tongue of the Church and the Pope, and
more fit to hold the Holy Scriptures than the vulgar tongue, which was
used for all base purposes."
"I suppose Latin must have been the vulgar tongue with the Romans," I
ventured to say. "Doubtless the Roman ladies scolded their maids and
their children, and gave orders about meat, and wine, and spinning,
just as we do in English."
"You are right, cousin," answered my Lady; "and when St. Jerome
translated the Scripture into Latin, he put it in the vulgar tongue, as
its name signifies."
"But by what means do the Testaments come into this country?" I asked.
"Chiefly by means of the Hamburg and other German merchants. 'Tis said
there is an association called the Christian Brothers, composed of
the richest and best traders of London, who make it their business to
disperse the new Gospels in all directions throughout the land."
"And what says the Cardinal to all this spread of heresy?" asked my
mother.
"The Cardinal is full of other matters, and like to be fuller,"
answered my Lady. "The Lady Anne hates him venomously, because he will
pay her no court, and all men predict his speedy downfall. Wolsey
himself, men say, grows weary of his life. 'Tis said he told the French
embassador, that could he once see this marriage question settled, the
peace accomplished, and the laws and customs of the kingdom reformed,
he would retire and serve God the rest of his days."
"Alack, poor man!" said my mother. "He would finish his worldly gear
first, and then serve God afterward. But surely his downfall must make
great changes."
"Yes, and for that reason many are fain to see him fall. His unbounded
pride, and display, and his lust of power, make him enemies, especially
among the nobles, who can ill brook to see a clerk, the son of a
butcher, set over all their heads. Yet there are others, and those
far-seeing men, who dread his downfall. He is certainly a check on his
Majesty, and has more than once crossed his humor as no other man dare
for his life. Then with all his faults, he is neither mean nor cruel,
and his own household are devoted to him."
By this time the babe was awake, and we went to the nursery to see him.
He is a delicate little fellow, very lovely, and like his mother; but
by no means so stout or fat as a babe of his age should be. My mother
strongly counselled my Lady to give him no medicine, but to take him
out in the air as much as might be. The mother and child together were
a most beautiful sight; yet I heard my mother sigh, as she gazed, and
my heart echoed the sigh, I hardly knew why.
When we went out to the gardens, as we did on leaving the nursery, we
encountered my Lord and Richard. My Lord paid his compliments, with his
usual easy grace, to my mother and myself, and then turned eagerly to
my Lady, whom it seems he had left sleeping. It was pretty to see his
earnestness to know whether she had slept well; was she refreshed, had
she eaten, and so on. Even his boy seemed of little consequence beside
his wife. Meantime Dick and I exchanged greetings in our old cousinly
fashion. I had expected to see, I know not what change, and 'twas a
real comfort to me when Dick dropped his beaver in his old clumsy
fashion, as he saluted me. Presently, in walking through the maze, we
found ourselves chatting as if we had not been parted a day. I felt as
though I must needs take Dick to task for getting me into such a scrape
by the means of Mistress Bullen, and was considering how best to begin,
when himself saved me the trouble. His first words took me all aback.
"Rosamond, why did your Lady Abbess send back the packet of Venetian
silks and beads I sent her? I don't think 'twas very gracious in her to
reject my little offering."
I believe I stared at him like a fool. "What do you mean?" I asked,
simply.
"Why, I mean the packet I sent her by Mistress Bullen," answered Dick,
looking surprised in his turn. "I saw my Lady Latimer and my Lady Denny
at work with these beads and silks, embroidering of stools and covers;
and knowing how famous your house is for fine work, I thought the like
materials would make an acceptable offering, please the Lady Abbess,
and perhaps yourself. So I asked my Lady cousin to buy the things for
me, and sent them by the hands of Mistress Bullen, as I said; and much
amazed I was to have them returned on my hands by Master Griffith."
I saw it all in a minute; and despite my vexation I could not help
laughing to think how dear Mother Superior had cheated herself.
"Mistress Bullen was a Corby messenger," I said, as soon as I could
compose my face. "She made a great mystery of the matter, giving me
the packet in secret, telling me that you had bidden her give it me
privately. Only that dear Mother is so good and right-minded, I should
have been in a serious scrape."
Dick looked vexed enough.
"Just what I might have expected!" said he. "Mistress Anne is a born
mischief-maker! She said you told her you had nothing to say to any
Court popinjay; even if you married, you looked for a higher match than
the poor kinsman of a lord, but you would rather be Abbess of a good
house than to be any man's house-dame."
"I never said such a word!" I told him. "It would ill become me to be
talking of such matters!"
"It did not sound like you, and I did not believe her when she spoke,"
said Richard. "I could not think you so changed in a short time. But I
cannot help laughing, now I know the right of the matter, to think how
the good Mother cheated herself. And yet, since she did believe the
packet to be yours, 'twas like a high-minded lady not to open it."
"She is a high-minded lady!" I said. "I wish she had opened the parcel,
because then I should have been quite cleared in her eyes, and yet I
respect her the more for not doing so. When I can write to her I will
tell her how it was."
"Aye, and send the packet back at the same time, if you will," said
Richard. "I have brought you some things of the same sort."
"Richard!" said I, presently, after we had walked in silence a little
way. "I heard my mother and my Lady talking about the spread of the new
doctrine, and the new English Testaments. Have you seen any of these
books?"
"Aye, have I," said Richard: "they are falling about London and the
Court as plenty as lady-birds."
"And what do the bishops and priests say to them?"
"They would like to burn the books and the readers with them, and 'tis
a wonder if they don't have their will of some of them!" said Dick.
"The preaching friars and the monks are as busy as the devil over Lundy
in a gale of wind; but the smoke is out of the chimney and the cat out
of the bag, and all the king's horses and all the king's men can't get
them in again."
"But why are the priests so much opposed to the spread of these books?"
I asked. "Do they say they are not the true gospel?"
"Aye, that is the pretext, of course!" answered Dick. "I heard one of
them say that all Tyndale's books were printed, which showed plainly
that they were not the true gospel, since the Church had always had the
gospel, and every one knew that there were no printed books fifty years
ago."
"Oh, Dick," said I, "you should not joke about such matters."
"'Tis no joke, but sober earnest," said Dick. "I heard him myself, and
so did many others, who laughed in the preacher's face; for they can't
make people swallow their words whole as they used to. What with the
abolishment of the benefit of clergy and the new Greek learning, the
poor old fellows are getting it on all sides. I myself heard a well
learned gentleman say that Erasmus his Greek Testament had done more
for the spread of the new doctrines than Tyndale his English book."
"I know Master Ellenwood's Greek Testament is never out of his hand
when he has a moment's leisure," I said. "I would I knew Greek. But
Richard, you only answered half my question. Have you looked into any
of these books?"
"If I tell you I have read one from end to end, you will hold me for
little else than a reprobate, I dare say," answered Richard.
"I shall certainly hold the book for something wonderful," I answered.
"I don't believe you ever read through any book you were not obliged
to, unless it were the 'Morte d' Arthur,' or some Canterbury Tale. But
have you indeed read this book through?"
"Indeed I have, dear heart, and more than once. Shall I show it you?"
And therewith he drew from his bosom a small, well-worn volume, and
put it in my hand. Almost mechanically I opened it, and the first
words I read were these, which I had so often heard from my step-dame:
"Sufficient unto the time is the evil thereof."
At this moment we were interrupted by a call, and one of the servants
came to bid us to supper.
"Richard," said I, "will you lend me this book?"
"No," he answered, taking it from my hands. "I will take no such
responsibility; but if you would read it, ask your step-dame to give
it you. She is as great a favorer of the new doctrine as my Lady Denny
herself. But, Rosamond, if you mean to go back to your convent, I rede
you let the book alone."
"And why so?" I asked.
"Because, an you read and believe it, you will never go back there,"
answered Dick; and that was all I could get out of him.
Dick is changed, but not as Mistress Bullen said. He is far graver, and
more manly than he used to be. He has lost most of his old blundering
bashfulness, and seems indeed not to think of himself at all. The very
expression of his face is changed, yet he has all his old kind ways,
and is just as ready to do service to gentle and simple.
It is odd he never so much as noticed the change in my dress.
I am vexed when I think of the coil that was made about poor Dick's
simple offering. If dear Mother had only opened it—but she will know
when I write to her.
To-morrow is May-day, and is like to be fine. If so we shall go down as
usual, and see the dances on the green, and perhaps join in them. My
Lord and Lady have promised to grace us with their presence. I fear she
will think our country ways but rude and boisterous, as she has lived
all her life in town and about the Court; though in her manners she is
as modest and simple as any country maid.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXVI.
_May 12._
THE May games went off very well. We had all the usual sports—Robin
Hood and Little John, Maid Marian and all the rest of them, and besides
a Miracle play—the first ever seen in these parts, and for mine own
part I should hope it might be the last. The players, it seems, were
at Biddeford May games, and hearing that we were to have unusual
festivities here, they sent a deputation hither, praying my Lord and my
father to patronize them. The Prior also gave them his good word, so my
Lord consented and won my father to do the same.
The old May pole having been shivered by lightning last year, my Lord
gave a new one from his own woods, a fine, stately shaft, which was
duly bedizened with flowers and ribbons, and drawn to its place on the
morning of the games, with all the oxen that could be mustered, and a
great noise of horns, hautbois and fiddles.
We walked down to the green about ten of the clock, and found the
lads and maids dancing about the pole, and more than the usual
crowd assembled. There was an Egyptian woman telling of fortunes,
a travelling huckster or two with ribbons, toys and gingerbread,
and another selling of books and ballads, who I fear made but a bad
speculation. He was a sober, decent-looking man, and seeing him looking
our way, my mother beckoned him, and began looking over his stock,
which was made up mostly of tracts and primers, with some ballads and
penny prints of saints and virgins.
"And have you no other wares than these?" asked my step-dame. "There
are many new books going now-a-days?"
"And that is true, madam," answered the chapman, (and I could not but
notice how well he spoke, respectfully, but with no fawning servility,
such as chapmen commonly use). "The present time is, under your favor,
like the householder in the scriptures, bringing forth out of his
treasures things new and old. Aye, and the old have been so long forgot
in these parts that they are the newest of all."
"And that is true!" answered my mother. "Well, this is but a public
place. Come you to Corby End this evening, and we will look over your
wares, and give you a night's entertainment."
The man gave her courteous thanks and turned away. Just then Harry came
to tell us that the play was about to begin, and only waited our coming
to the seats reserved for us.
"I have little fancy for these mummeries," said my Lady to us, as we
took the stools which had been set for our accommodation; "but yet we
must not mortify the poor players. I trust they will confine themselves
in proper bounds."
"'Tis the Passion of our Lord they are about to play," said the Prior
of Stanton, who had his seat near us. "No one can object to that,
surely."
"With submission, reverend Father, such a subject seems to me hardly
fitted for the day and the scene," answered my Lady, gently. "Besides,
does it not seem to you to savor of presumption—to say no more—that
a poor strolling player, and he often a lewd and profane person,
as but too many of them are—should take upon himself to personate
our suffering Lord, putting his own words in the mouth of one so
unspeakably august and venerable?"
The Prior fidgetted on his scat, and looked somewhat uncomfortable as
he answered:
"You know, my Lady, the Church path always sanctioned these things,
considering them to be of the nature of pictures and images, which are
called the books of the unlearned."
"But why not expend the time and treasure which these things cost, in
teaching the unlearned?" asked my mother.
"Nay, Madam, that would never do," answered the Prior. "What, would
you have Jack and Jill, and Hodge and Joan, leaving their ploughing
and spinning to pore over books of divinity, and discuss questions of
casuistry? What then would become of the work, and of the respect which
they owe to their betters?"
The poor old fat priest got so red and did seem so disturbed, that I
was glad my mother made him no reply, save a smile. Indeed, she had no
time to do so, for the play began directly.
I had never seen such an one before, and I must say I was shocked.
There were all the holy Apostles, our Lady (represented by a simpering
boy with a crack in his voice) Pontius Pilate (a most truculent looking
personage), the two thieves, and worst of all, our Lord himself,
besides devils and angels in plenty. The people made their remarks
freely enough, and I can't say they seemed greatly solemnized or
edified. The part which pleased them most was when the devils thrust
Judas down to the infernal pit, and were then kicked after him, without
any ceremony, by the angels, who afterward ascended to heaven, one at a
time, on the same cloud which had served our Lord, and which was worked
in plain sight by a man with a rope and a winch.
It seems to me almost profane to write these things down, and yet I
don't know why I should feel so. We used to make little Christs of
wax at the convent, and paint them to the life, and nobody thought
any harm of that. And there were our Bethlehems, which practice was
begun by Saint Francis himself, our holy founder, and at the first of
which happened a wonderful miracle, for during the ceremony, the saint
was seen caressing an infant of celestial beauty, who appeared to the
astonishment of all beholders. The straw on which this apparition
happened was preserved with great devotion, and worked many miraculous
cures. We had some of it among our relics, and 'twas held almost
as sacred as the glass containing the Holy Virgin's milk. But I am
forgetting the May games.
After the play was ended, the dancing began anew. Several of the
fathers were down from the convent, as usual, but methought they were
not very cordially received. And when Father Jerome ventured to chuck
Jan Lee's new wife under the chin, with what I must needs say was
rather a broad jest, Jan gave him a look as black as thunder and drew
his bride away. I too had an encounter which did not please me. I was
standing by my father, and leaning on his arm, when the Prior came up
to us with the same dark priest who had been in the church on Sunday,
and presented him to my father as Father Barnabas of Glastonbury. Then
turning to me:
"What, my fair Rosamond, is this you? I did not know the dove in her
plumage!"
While I was thinking what to say in reply, the other priest broke in:
"Methinks neither the plumes nor the place are very well suited to
the promised bride of Christ; how well soever they may beseem fair
Rosamond!" with an emphasis on the name. It was now my father's turn to
look black.
"My daughter, sir priest, is no nun; and being as yet under her
father's roof and rule, she dresses to please him, like a dutiful
maiden, and according to the words we heard last Sunday: 'Honor thy
father and mother.'"
"Aye, there it is," said the prior. "Now may we see what comes of
these innovations. Soon every man will be ready with his text and his
commentary—according to the boast of that archfiend Tyndale, which I
heard him make to myself, that he would so order matters that in a few
years every ploughboy should know more of Scripture than I did. And
what are we to do then!"
"Lackaday! I don't know," answered Will Paxton, my Lord's jester,
putting in his word as usual—"'Tis an ill-ordered house where the man
can write, though the master can't read."
Whereat the priest frowned, and my father laughed heartily, and gave
Will a silver groat, bidding him go buy a fairing for his sweetheart.
Then saying that I was standing too long and would be ill again, he led
me away, and we presently went up to the Court to spend the day with
my Lady, to whom I had promised instruction in the art of knitting. We
passed a very quiet and pleasant day, and walking home together in the
twilight, in a thoughtful mood, I suddenly bethought myself of Dick's
little book, and asked my mother, saying:
"Madam, have you ever seen one of these same Testaments of Master
Tyndale's?"
"Aye, daughter, that have I! I have both seen and read it!" she
answered.
"And do you think 'tis really the true Gospel?" I asked again,
remembering what Amice had told me about it.
"I have no doubt of it. Master Ellenwood, at my request, and for his
own satisfaction, has been comparing it with the Greek and Latin text,
and says 'tis marvellously well done."
"Oh, how I should love to read it!" I exclaimed.
"You would find many things to astonish you, my child," answered my
mother. "Yea, to upset all your former notions, and mayhap lead you to
renounce and contemn many things which you have been used to hold most
sacred all your life long."
"Dick said I must not read it if I ever meant to go back to the
convent," I said. "But mother—Madam, I would say—"
"Nay, dearest child, call me ever mother, if you will," said she,
pressing my arm kindly. "'Tis very sweet to me to hear the name fall so
naturally from your lips. But what would you say, dear heart?"
"I was going to say, that this difference seems very strange and sad to
me," I went on. "If the Gospels are right—and the true Gospel must be
right—then is the Church wrong!"
"Well, what then?" she asked. "Your reasoning is good, but what then?"
"Why, then we must follow the Gospel, as it seems to me," I answered.
"But, mother, will you let me have this Gospel to read?"
"Yes, child! Since you ask it, I can do no otherwise," said she, after
a moment's hesitation. "I dare not withhold the word of God from
you—but alas, my child, have you considered that you may be taking in
hand the torch to light your own funeral pile, withal? Shall I give you
that which may be your death?"
"Why not, if it shall lead me to eternal life?" I said. "Besides, it
may not be so bad as you say. Mistress Bullen favors the new teachings,
my Lady says—not that I think any better of them for that, but she is
very great with the King, as we all know."
"I build not at all on Mrs. Bullen's favor," answered my Lady. "She is
indeed in the sunshine of his Majesty's countenance even now, but how
long will she stay there, think you? She is beautiful and brilliant and
fascinating, if you will—though I must say she never pleased me—but she
hath neither principle nor prudence to guide her in her dangerous path.
Ah, child, be thankful that you have grown up at home, and not in a
Court."
"But as to this book!" I ventured to say.
"As to this book, you shall have it, if your father be willing to let
you run the risk. But count the cost, my child, and pray for guidance
to Him who has promised to give wisdom to them that ask. When you have
done so, come to me in my closet, and I will put into your hands the
word of God."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXVII.
_June 1._
DICK was right! I shall never go back to the convent.
The next day after the May games, my mother, according to her promise,
put into my hand Master Tyndale's New Testament, and with it a copy
of the same in Latin—the Vulgate, as 'tis called—bidding me compare
as I read. Since then every leisure moment has been spent in reading
and studying and comparing, and oh, in what a new world of thought and
feeling and experience do I find myself! What clouds have cleared away
from my mind!
I have spent many hours closeted with my mother, and while our fingers
worked at Harry's outfit, our minds were busy with these great themes.
No, I never can go back, never can take the veil! I find in the word of
God no warrant for any such life.
How astonished I was to find that St. Peter and St. James and other
of the Apostles had been married—that our Lady herself seems to have
lived at home with her husband like any other woman—and that she is
nowhere represented as bearing any rule, or being of more authority in
the Church than any other woman. Indeed, our Lord Himself said that any
one who had His word and kept it, was as near to Him as His mother—"the
same is my brother, and sister, and mother"—are His words. And then
this very Gospel, which the priests keep so jealously from us, was at
the first preached to the common folk in those parts—they followed Him
in crowds to hear His words, and indeed very few of the better or more
religious class followed Him at all. But I cannot write down all my
thoughts—they are too new and too precious. I must think them over.
My mother tells me that the chapman whom we saw at the May games, and
who stayed more than one night here and at the Court, was a member
of the fraternity known among themselves as the Christian Brothers—a
company of merchants and men of substance who devote their time, their
means, yea and their lives also to spreading the word of God in this
land. This same Master Bradbury's stock in trade consisted chiefly of
Testaments, or fragments of the same, which he disseminated wherever he
found opportunity.
My mother, I can see, builds nothing at all on his Majesty's favor for
the new religion. She says he may quarrel with the Pope about this
matter of the divorce, but if so, 'twill be but to make himself Pope
instead. He is already highly enraged at Tyndale, because of his letter
against the divorce, and hath forbidden the circulation of his books;
but, said my mother, he might as well forbid the wind to blow.
'Tis even as Master Ellenwood said—like making a breach in the dykes
and forbidding the sea to run through.
But I can't help hoping more than my mother does—perhaps because I am
younger. Anyhow I am sure I shall never be sorry that I have come to
know the true Gospel. It has cleared away many doubts and fears and
cares from my mind. All anxiety for my mother's soul, for one thing;
because, though she believed as she was taught, and never saw this
book, yet I am sure she trusted in God for her salvation, and served
Him according to the light that she had. As for my dear Amice, I feel
sure that she has obtained the object of her old ambition, though in a
far different way from that she proposed for herself, and is now indeed
a saint—a glorified saint, to go no more out from His presence forever,
in whom she trusted. Oh, that dear Mother Gertrude could have this
comfort about one whom she mourns as eternally condemned to perdition!
I cannot give it her—I can only pray for her and—what a word have I
here written! Only pray for her, forsooth!
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXVIII.
I HAVE had an adventure which hath bred serious consequences in the
household.
The night before last was very dark and sultry, with thick, low hanging
clouds, and a feeling of thunder in the air. The sea was calling
loudly, and Dobby's Pool roaring in that hollow, boding tone, which
always foretells a storm. I had had a headache, and some threatenings
of a chill, a visitation to which I am now and then subject, and my
mother gave me a dose of her favorite spicy cordial, and sent me early
to bed.
Thunder always makes me drowsy, and I was soon asleep. It must have
been near midnight when I waked. The waning moon had risen, and shone
full into the chamber and on the door of my mother's oratory. To my
utter amazement it opened slowly, and a figure issued therefrom,
dressed in my mother's garments, and bearing in one hand a dim
light, in the other my old convent dress, which it seemed to hold up
reproachfully before my eyes, while it uttered in a hollow whisper
these words:
"Wretched, apostate child! Will you doom your own soul and your
mother's to the flames of hell forever?"
I was scared at first, I confess—but the moment the apparition spoke,
my courage returned, or something which served me instead. I sprang
from the bed, and snatching the bed staff which stood near, I rushed
at the would-be ghost, which retreated the way it had come with all
haste, but not before I had dealt it one sound blow, which fell plainly
on corporal substance. I followed the thing into the oratory, but it
was nowhere to be seen. By this time I was as cool as possible. I knew
there was but one place of concealment, namely a small closet which had
no outlet, and finding the key in the oratory door, I quietly locked it
on the outside, put the key away, and returned to bed.
The start and exertion brought on my shivering fit, and I was just
beginning to get over it a little, when I heard a voice I well knew,
but humble and quavering enough.
"Mrs. Rosamond—Oh, Mistress Rosamond—" then as I did not answer—"Oh,
Mistress Rosamond, do let me out! There is a storm coming on, and I
dare not stay here."
"Who are you?" I asked, trying to speak soberly, though I was choked
with laughter.
"I am nobody but Prudence—Prudence, your poor bower-woman. Oh, Mistress
Rosamond, do let me out, and I will thank you all my days!"
"I do not believe you!" I said. "Prudence would never play such a
wicked, malicious trick, and one too so profane and impious. You are
some impudent stroller and thief—an Egyptian, too, for aught I know.
You shall stay till morning, and see what measure my Lord and my father
will deal out to you."
She still pleaded for mercy, and in tones of such real and abject
terror, that I began to fear she might die of fright, and rose to
release her; but just as I was striking a light, for the clouds had
risen once more, and it was very dark, my stepmother entered the room
with a candle in her hand.
"Are you ill, Rosamond—and who were you talking with?" said she,
looking around, and naturally surprised to see nobody. "I am sure I
heard you talking."
"You did, Madam!" I answered. "A ghost appeared to me and I chased it
with the bed staff into the closet yonder and locked it up, and now it
is scared and wants to get out."
Madam looked as if she thought my wits were wandering, and as well as I
could for laughing, I told her the tale. Then suddenly the wickedness
and unkindness of the trick flashed on me, and I fell to crying as hard
as I had laughed.
Madam soothed and kissed me, and making me lie down, she said she would
fetch me some drops from her room—"and then I will call your father,
and we will unearth this ghost of ours."
When she was gone, Prudence renewed her pleadings. "Oh, Mistress
Rosamond, do let me out. My master will kill me!"
"I can't," said I. "Madam has taken the key—" (as indeed she had,
thinking, I dare say, that I should relent). "Whoever you are, you must
bake as you have brewed. I fear the bread will not be to your taste."
My father and mother entered even as I spoke, and going at once to
the door, my father unlocked and threw it open. There stood Mistress
Prudence, arrayed as I had seen her, for in the darkness she had not
been able to find her own gown, and looking as foolish and venomous as
a fox caught in a poultry yard.
I pass over the scene that followed—my father's stern wrath, which my
mother vainly strove to mitigate, and Prue's tears and exclamations
that she meant no harm, and it was only a joke, and so on.
"It is a joke that shall cost you dear," said my father, grimly. "You
shall spend the night in the prison you have chosen, and in the morning
you leave this house forever. But for her sake whose memory you have
outraged, the rising sun should see you set in the stocks on the
village green as a thief and an impudent witch."
"I am no thief!" sobbed Prudence. "I never took so much as a hair."
"Where got you the clothes you wear—and that rosary by your side—wretch
that you are!" interrupted my father, his wrath rising as he recognized
my mother's beads and cross, which he had always kept on his own table.
"Here, you men and women—" for by this time half the household were
gathered at the door—"come in and see this woman, who has dared to
dress up in her sainted lady's clothes to scare my daughter. Look at
her well! For by this hand you will not see her soon again!"
Many and various were the remarks and comments of pity for me and anger
and contempt against Prue, who is no favorite.
"If it had been any common young lady, and so delicate in health as
Mistress Rosamond too—it might have scared her to death!" said one.
"I wonder Mrs. Prue didn't see a ghost in good earnest," said another.
"I should have expected an evil spirit to come after me if I had played
such a trick."
"There is no evil spirit worse than the spirit of lying and
cruelty—remember that, maids!" said Madam, solemnly. "Now let all go to
bed, say your paternosters, and let the house be quiet."
In the morning Prue was released from her durance and allowed to go
free whither she would. So much grace did my mother and I obtain for
her, but farther than that my father was adamant. He declared in answer
to a hint of mine that she had had a lesson, and might be allowed to
remain—that nothing should tempt him to let her stay under the roof
another day. And here indeed my step-dame took part against me, and
on consideration, I believe they are both right—yet I can't but feel
very sorry for Prue. She came to my room to bid me farewell, and I gave
her some money. My step-dame did the same, though I believe there was
little need of it, for I know she hath saved nearly all her earnings.
"Oh, Mistress Rosamond!" was all she could say at first, for she was
really weeping—and then—"'Twas all for your good—to save your precious
soul and your mother's."
"Souls are not to be saved by lies, Prue!" says I. "Remember that there
is no sin that God hates more than this of lying."
"Nay, 'tis but a venial sin," she answered, excusing herself; "'tis not
one of the seven deadly sins!"
"'Tis a sin most expressly forbidden in the word of God," I told her,
"as you might have known if you had listened to the commandments which
have been read in the church lately."
"Not I!" said she, tartly. "I am for no such new-fangled ways. But oh,
Mistress Rosamond, I meant not to harm you—I did not, indeed. 'Twas all
for your good, and to scare you into your duty. Oh, Mistress Rosamond,
my dear heart, do not you be persuaded into breaking your convent vows!
Your mother, your blessed mother, gave you to the Church the very hour
you were born, and before. You will pull down destruction on your head,
if you draw back—Father Barnabas himself says the same. This new lady
is no better than a heretic, and I have it from a sure hand that in
London she was well-known as such, and my mistress is just the same.
Oh, that ever I should have lived to see the day! But, my dear Mistress
Rosamond, for your own soul and body's sake, don't you break your vows
and be a castaway!"
"Now you are meddling with matters far too high for you, Prudence!"
said I. "As for my vows, there can be none broken where there were none
made, and for the rest, beware my Lord's anger! If he should hear that
you had but breathed on the fair fame of his wife, it were better you
had never been born!"
She winced a little at this, and took refuge in tears and exclamations
that ever she had lived to see the day: and so took her leave, meaning,
as she says, to go to her sisters at Bristol. Yet I hear she hath not
gone, but is staying with some one here in the village, making a great
show of devotion, and specially of saying her prayers at my mother's
grave. I wish she would go away, I know not why, but I do dread some
mischief from her tongue.
What she said about lying has set me to looking up all the passages in
Scripture relating to the same. I find plenty of them condemning the
sin in the strongest terms, as even that all liars shall have their
part in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the
second death; and yet it is true, as she said, that the Church counts
it but a venial sin. I cannot understand it.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXIX.
_June 20._
I HAVE been called on to make a very solemn and awful decision—and I
have made it. Some days ago my father sent for me into his room, and
said to me:
"Rosamond, the time has come for you to decide upon your way of life.
If you are going back to the convent it is time and more that you
were gone. You know what your mother's and my wishes once were on the
subject. You have seen what convent life is, and now you must decide
what you will do—whether you will become a nun, or live at home."
I was struck dumb for a few minutes. It had never occurred to me that I
was to be called upon to decide the matter. I had somehow supposed that
it would be settled for me.
"So far as we are concerned," continued my father, after a little
silence, "my wife and I would gladly keep you at home. You have ever
shown yourself a dutiful and good child to us, as well as to—her that
is gone. But we put no force upon your inclinations, either way. You
must decide for yourself."
"But not this minute, or this hour, dear heart," said madam, who had
hitherto been silent. "Take time, pray, ask counsel of God and thine
own heart, and then decide. Be sure that we shall be only too glad to
keep you with us as long as we can."
"Only this much I must say, Rosamond," added my father, "I do believe
if we could know thy mother's mind now, she would bid thee remain at
home. But go now and do as madam hath said—pray—read the Gospel, and
then decide. Bless thee, my dear one; and truly I believe thou wilt be
blessed, for better maid never lived."
I cannot but write these words, they are so precious, coming from my
father, who seldom puts his deeper feelings into words. I rose from
my knees and went to mine own chamber, to the oratory where my mother
spent so much time in prayer, and there I remained many hours—Madam,
with her usual kind care, giving orders that I should not be disturbed.
For a while my mind was so tossed and tumbled that I could see nothing.
I could not even pray, and at last took refuge in repeating the Psalms,
specially the hundred and nineteenth, which seemed full of petitions
suitable to my state. By degrees my spirit grew calmer, and I was able
to pour out my whole heart. I do not now pray to the Saints or to our
Lady, because I can find in the whole of Scripture no warrant for doing
so, but every encouragement to come at once to my Heavenly Father,
through the merits and intercession of His Son.
Toward evening my mother came, bringing with her own hands a simple
and dainty little repast, decked with fresh flowers, as her manner is.
(She does love flowers above any woman I ever saw, and has brought from
London and the East country many new kinds of roots and seeds, such as
have never been seen in these parts.) She would have me eat and drink
to keep up my strength; and though I felt no great inclination thereto,
it behooved me to please her, when she had taken so much pains for me.
"And now, my dear one, let me give thee a little counsel!" said she.
"Do not you remain shut up here, but go out and walk in the fresh cool
evening, before the sun goes down, and then committing thyself and all
thy cares to thy Heavenly Father, lie down to rest in peace. Be sure He
will guide thee to a wise decision."
I had purposed to watch all night in the oratory, I told her.
She smiled.
"And will that clear your head, think you, sweetheart? Or will a fit
of ague, such as any fatigue is sure to bring upon you, assist you in
deciding wisely? See here what the Psalmist says!"
And taking up my Latin Psalter, she read from the hundred and
twenty-seventh Psalm: "It is but lost labor that ye haste to rise up
early, and so late take rest—for so He giveth his beloved sleep!"
I saw that she was right. Certainly the ague does not clear one's head,
and I am apt to have a return of it on any unusual fatigue. So I kissed
her good-night, said my prayers once more, and went to bed. I was
restless the first of the night, but toward morning I fell asleep and
had a most sweet dream. Methought I stood at the gate of a most lovely
and well-ordered garden, full of flowers, surpassing all I had ever
seen for beauty and sweetness, and bathed in a light such as I never
saw in this world of ours. Therein I could see many spirits, walking,
talking and singing, clothed all in white, some of them with crowns of
radiant stars. I looked eagerly for some one I knew, and saw Sister
Bridget among the brightest, and then Amice; but they did not see me
nor could I attract their notice. At last my mother came toward me,
dressed and crowned like the rest, with her hands filled with roses.
Her face was like herself, but more full of peace than I had ever seen
it in this life, when it ever wore a shade of care.
"Dear mother," said I, "will you tell me what I shall do?"
"Honor thy father and thy mother!" said she, in her old voice of gentle
command.
"But, mother, you did give me to the cloister!" I said, trembling, I
knew not why.
"I gave you to God!" said she, and smiled upon me.
"And is not this the same?" I asked.
Her answer was, "They have made the word of God of none effect, through
their tradition."
"Can I not come in to you, dearest mother?" I asked, feeling an
inexpressible longing to enter that fair Paradise.
"Not yet. Thy place is prepared, but thou hast yet much work to do. See
here are roses for thy bridal crown. Go home to thy house and wait thy
Lord's time."
She held out the flowers to me, as she spoke; a most wonderful
sweetness filled the air, and seemed to steal into my very soul,
bringing I know not what of calm and quietness. Then I awoke, and
behold, it was but a dream; yet was it wonderful clear and real to me,
and I seem as if I had indeed seen my mother.
I had gone to sleep all tossed and undecided; but lying awake in the
clear early dawn, all seemed to be made plain to me. How could I return
to the convent, where half our duties consisted in prayers offered to
the saints and our Lady—in dressing up images and the like? What should
I do there? Either I must live a life wholly false and hypocritical, or
I must expose myself to I know not what, of persecution, and perhaps a
fearful death. And here came to my mind the niches I had seen, bricked
up in the chapel vault, and the nameless neglected graves in that
corner, I can't think it is our Lord's will that we should seek the
crown of martyrdom, though many I know have done so; for He expressly
bade his disciples, when they were persecuted in one city, to flee to
another. No, I can never go back! My mind is made up, and I have told
my father, who received my decision with joy. I am no more Rosamond
the postulant, but plain Rosamond Corbet. My only trouble is for dear
Mother Superior, who I know will grieve over me as a lost soul. Oh,
that she also might come to see the light!
I have announced my decision to my father and mother, and I see they
are both pleased. In recounting my motives, I was led to tell them what
had happened in respect to Amice, and how that I had been secluded so
long. I saw them exchange glances.
"So that was the beginning of your fever!" said my father, striking his
hand on the table. "Had I known you were so mewed up, I would have had
their crows' nest down about their ears."
I assured him earnestly, that I had not been ill-treated, but quite the
contrary; adding that I did not think Mother Superior had any choice in
the matter.
"There is the mischief!" said my father. "Nobody is personally
responsible. Every one is a puppet whose strings are pulled by some
other puppet, and his again by some one else. 'Tis an utter and
miserable slavery from the beginning to the end, and the superiors are
perhaps as much to be pitied as any one."
"I cannot but feel that our Rosamond hath had a great escape," said
Madam.
"Do you think that there is any truth in what we have heard, of nuns
that have been built up alive in their tombs?" I asked, remembering
those grisly niches I had seen in the chapel vault.
"I cannot say for certain, but I have little doubt of it; and indeed
'tis only very lately that the thing has ever been denied," answered
my father. "I know that in the Low Countries it has been a common
punishment for heresy. Old Will Lee saw a woman buried alive, and said
she sung joyfully till the earth stopped her breath; and I know that in
Spain and Italy, far worse things have been done by the Inquisition.
'Tis not easy to get at the truth about what goes on in convent walls.
A nun has no refuge and no help. She is away from her own family,
who can only see her now and then. By-and-by they are told that she
is dead, but who knows how and where she died? They might have told
us when we came to see you, that you had died weeks before, of the
sickness, and we should have taken their word for it, and all the time
you might have been shut up in some prison."
"I can't think any such thing ever happened at our house," I said.
"Dear Mother Superior is too kind and generous. Alas I fear her heart
will be sorely wounded."
"I fear so," answered my mother, sighing, "and also many another. 'Tis
a part of the cross that these days of shaking and separation lay upon
us, that we must ofttimes seem to desert those who are nearest and
dearest to us. It is a woeful necessity."
And here the conversation ended. My father is to send letters to Mother
Superior, to acquaint her with the matter, and I have also written. My
heart is sore grieved, but what can I do?
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXX.
_June 30._
MASTER HAWKINS, Harry's captain, hath been to see us. He's a rough
sea dog, as my father says, but yet kind and good, as it seems to me,
and with a clear, honest face that I felt disposed to trust. Harry
took to him greatly, and is more than ever confirmed in his resolution
of sailing. Master Hawkins says Harry is like a young bear, with all
his troubles to come; but he adds very sensibly that troubles come
everywhere, and reminded my mother of her young cousin whose father
would not let him go to sea because he was the only son, and who was
drowned in a pond in his father's orchard. The ships do not sail till
the last of August, so we shall have Harry for two good months yet.
Something happened this morning which has vexed me more than I believe
it is worth. I was down at Freshwater, to carry some baby clothes
and a bottle of sack to Meg Yeo, who is not getting up well from her
lying-in. I noticed that two or three people stared at me curiously,
and methought there was something odd in Meg's own manner, which,
however, melted away under the influence of the baby linen. While I was
there, Dame Lee, Meg's mother, came in.
"So, Mistress Rosamond, you are looking fine and stout again," said
she, and then to her daughter: "Did I not tell you, Meg, they were but
idle tales yonder woman told? Does our young lady look like one haunted
by spectres, or hunted by a cruel step-dame?"
Her words were spoken aside, but not so low as that I did not hear them.
"What do you mean, dame?" said I. "Why should I look otherwise than
well, or like one haunted by spectres?"
"For no reason that I know, Mistress," answered the old woman: "only
fools will tell tales and other fools believe them. Nay, Meg, thou need
not be making signs to me. 'Tis right Mistress Rosamond should know."
"Know what?" I asked. "You are all as mysterious as a miracle play this
morning."
"There is no great mystery in the case," said Dame Lee. "The whole
matter is this. The woman Patience Hollins, whom Madam Corbet sent
away, has been telling everywhere that your step-dame obliged you to
leave off your convent dress, and break your vows, that she might wed
you to a needy kinsman of her own, and also that the very night the
change was made your honored mother's spirit appeared to you, all
surrounded with flames and burning sulphur, and reproached you with
your disobedience, and declared that it had taken away her last hope of
salvation. Patience says she saw herself the boards where the spirit
had stood, and they were all burned black—and that she saw the ghost
also at a distance, and smelled the sulphur."
"She saw the ghost as near as any one," said and with that I told them
the tale as it was.
"Lo, did I not tell you as much!" said the dame, turning to her
daughter. "The wicked wretch! She deserves to be hung! But is it true,
Mistress Rosamond, that you are not going to be a nun, after all?"
"'Tis quite true," said I. "You know my brother is going to sea, and
my father and mother naturally want me at home, and there are other
reasons. But there was neither force nor persuasion in the case. It was
left to myself to decide, and I have, as I believe, decided rightly."
"And I am glad on't with all my heart!" said Dame Lee, heartily. "I am
no believer in shutting up young maids in convent walls. They may do
for those who have no other home. But what can Patience mean by telling
such tales?"
"She means to hide her own disgrace and dismissal, no doubt," said I.
"She is a wicked woman, and I dare say will work me all the harm she
can. I suppose the whole village is ringing with this absurd tale."
"I shall tell the truth about it wherever I go, you may be sure," said
Dame Lee. "Mrs. Patience is not now my Lady's bower-woman, that I
should dread her anger. She used to abuse my late Lady's ear with many
a false tale, as she did about Meg here, because, forsooth, Meg would
not wed her nephew. But I shall let people know what her legends are
worth."
"Do so," said I.
And I doubt not she will; for besides that, the Lees have always been
attached to our family from the earliest times, the good gammer dearly
loves a gossip, and nuts to her to be able at once to contradict
Patience and to have the story at first hand. Yet, such is the love of
all people for the marvellous, that I should not wonder if the ghost
story should continue to be believed, and that for many generations. *
* She was right. It has been one of the family ghost stories ever
since. There are enough of them to make a chronicle by themselves.—D. C.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXXI.
_June 30._
A GREAT event has happened, so unexpected that I don't believe it even
yet.
Three days ago, as we were all sitting at supper, comes in Thomas and
says, "Here is a gentleman from Cornwall to see you, Sir Stephen."
"Have him in, man!" says my father. "Would you keep him waiting?"
"Nay, but he is so bespattered with his journey," says Thomas, "and
wearied as well. He says his name is Penrose."
"Penrose—Penrose—the name hath a familiar ring;" said my father,
musingly, and then: "Bid him never mind his spatters, but bring him in.
He must needs be sore wearied and wet too, riding in this storm."
The gentleman presently entered—an elderly man and thin—his riding
dress plain, almost to shabbiness. My father rose courteously to
receive him.
"You do not know me, Stephen," says the stranger: "yet we have been
playmates many a day at Tremador Court—"
"Joslyn Penrose!" exclaimed my father, and then ensued a cordial
greeting enow.
"And how is my good aunt?" asked my father presently. "She is an old
lady by this time."
"She is gone where are neither old nor young," answered the stranger,
sadly. "My good old friend and patroness was buried more than ten days
ago. You should have been bidden to the funeral, but the weather was
warm, and we had to hasten matters."
"'Tis just as well!" said my father. "I don't believe she would have
asked me if she had had her way, for I was never in her good graces
since the day I was so maladroit as to kill her cat with my cross-bow.
'Twas a mere piece of ill-luck, for I would not have hurt a hair of
poor puss if I had only seen her. Well, she is gone, and peace to her
soul! I hope she has made thee her heir, after all these years, Joslyn!"
"Nay, that she has not!" answered Master Penrose. "'Tis even that which
has brought me here."
"The old cat!" exclaimed my father.
"Wait till you hear, before you condemn!" answered our guest.
But here my mother interposed. The gentleman was surely too weary and
hungry to be kept discoursing of business. He should be shown to his
chamber, and then come to supper with us, before he said another word.
"And so she has kept Jos Penrose waiting on her like a slave all these
years, managing for her, and serving her more like a servant than a
kinsman, only to bilk him at last," said my father.
"I would not have been kept waiting!" said Harry. "I would have struck
out something for myself."
"You would not if you had been Joslyn," answered my father. "He was not
one to do so. He could manage well enough for others, but never could
keep two groats together for himself. Besides that his life was spoiled
by a woman, as many another man's life has been, and will be. Take
care, Harry, my son, that you pay him all due kindness and deference."
By this time our guest had come back, and was soon seated at the table,
each of us being presented to him in turn. When my turn came, Master
Penrose looked earnestly at me, as if he had some special interest in
me.
"So this is the young lady," said he, smiling somewhat sadly. "In
truth, though favor may be deceitful and beauty vain, as the wise man
said, Mistress Rosamond hath that in her face that makes me rejoice in
her good fortune."
"Rosamond is a good maiden, as maidens go," said my father: "but what
mean you, Joslyn? What good fortune hath befallen her? Has my aunt left
her guardian of her popinjay, or given her the reversion of that black
damask gown, I remember so well?"
"More than that!" answered Master Penrose. "Mistress Rosamond is sole
heir to Tremador, and all its appurtenances. 'Tis a fine estate, for
our part of the world—not less than an hundred and fifty a year, though
saddled with a life annuity of twenty pounds a year to myself. Also,
I am to have my nest for life in the old tower where I have lived
so long, and a seat at table and in hall, unless Mistress Rosamond
objects."
"Mistress Rosamond is no child of her father's if she does!" said Sir
Stephen. "But are you sure? 'Tis passing strange! I thought she would
make you her heir, or else leave all to the convent yonder. Rosamond
was her namesake, 'tis true, but she has never taken any more notice of
the child than to send her some old-fashioned gewgaws once on a time.
'Tis not right nor fair, Joslyn! You should have been the heir, and not
my daughter."
"Nay, I am well content!" answered Master Penrose. "My wants are few,
and if Mistress Rosamond will let me live where I have lived so long, I
shall not trouble her many years."
My mother looked at me, and made me a sign to speak; and though I was
so covered with confusion that I could hardly find words, I did manage
to say that, so far as I had any voice in the matter, I hoped Master
Penrose would always make my aunt's house his home. Then Master Penrose
kissed my hand and made me a pretty old-fashioned compliment; and I
was so confused and stunned with it all, that I think, like a fool, I
should have burst out crying, only that my mother, seeing my trouble,
came to my aid and rose from the table.
"We will leave you to talk over matters by yourselves," said she,
courteously. "Rosamond is somewhat overcome, and no wonder."
When I was alone with my Lady, I soon recovered myself. She does not
like to have me weep, and I am learning self-control. We talked the
matter over, and I said what I felt; that I could not think my aunt had
done right—that she should have made Master Penrose her heir, and not a
stranger, whom she had never even seen.
"People, even very good people, often make very strange and unjust
wills," said my Lady; and with that she sighed somewhat sadly. "But we
will not conclude that your aunt's will is of this kind, till we know
something more of the circumstances. She may have had good reasons for
the arrangement. You heard what your father said about Master Penrose,
that though a good manager for others, he could never keep too groats
together for himself. Some notion of this kind may have governed my old
Lady Tremador in leaving him only an annuity."
"I am sorry about this, for one reason," said I, presently. "People
will say I chose a secular life, because I had this fortune left me."
My mother smiled. "Shall I tell you a motto I saw once in Scotland?"
said she. "'Twas graven over a door, and ran thus—'They haf said—What
said they? Let them say!' 'Twas an odd motto for such a place, was it
not? But it may serve well enough for us. Many things will be said
about your choice, without doubt, but what matter? Let them say."
"Yet one cannot be indifferent to what folks say of one," quoth I: "and
I hardly know if it is right to be so."
"It is not right to be so indifferent as to provoke comment
needlessly," answered my Lady; "but when we know that we have done
right, we must be content to leave the rest."
My Lady then saying that I looked weary, sent me to bed, and I saw our
guest no more that night.
I feel well acquainted and at ease with him now, however, and shall,
I hope, be more so. 'Tis settled that next week we are all—that is my
father, mother, Harry and myself—to go to Tremador to take possession,
and see what is to be done in the way of repairs and the like. Master
Penrose journeys with us. My father would gladly have taken Master
Ellenwood, on whose judgment he relies greatly in business matters,
but Master Ellenwood expects his brother from Amsterdam to make him a
visit. Master Jasper is said to be a wonderful scholar, a friend of
Erasmus, and very deep in the new learning, both Greek and Latin.
My mother, who has been in Amsterdam with her first husband, says she
fears our housekeeping will seem very rough and sluttish to Master
Jasper's Dutch notions. She tells me that in Holland they strew no
rushes on the floors even of their dining-halls, but that the floors
are made of fine inlaid woods or stones, and the same are washed or
rubbed with fine sand every day, and then waxed till they shine like
glass. Madam herself is counted over particular by our men and maids
because she will have all the rushes renewed and the rooms thoroughly
swept every week instead of every month, as used to be the way. Also,
we will have no rushes in her chamber or mine, saying that they breed
fleas and other vermin, and hide the dust. Certainly the air in our
house is far sweeter than I remember it formerly. But it seems a great
deal of trouble to wash floors every day, and I should think would be
damp and unwholesome. Probably in Holland a little water more or less
does not matter.
My Lady has told me much of the comfort and splendor in which the
Dutch merchants live, of their beautiful pictures, presenting flowers
and other objects in all the hues of life, of their noble collections
of books, and the quantities of fine house linen, garments, and other
things which their wives lay up and provide against the marriage of
their daughters. I remember Mother Monica telling Amice and me that
in her day the merchants of London lived in far more comfort than the
nobles and courtiers.
This journey into Cornwall, which seems like a perilous adventure to
me, my Lady makes nothing of, save as she seems to enjoy the thoughts
of it. My father is going to stop on the way at the house of Sir
John Carey, who hath long owed him a sum of money. He is a kinsman
of our neighbors at Clovelly, but they know little of him, save that
he last year lost his only son in some very sad way, that I did not
clearly understand. Sir John is now old and feeble, and hath more than
once sent asking my father to come and see him, but it hath not been
convenient hitherto.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXXII.
_July 20, Tremador, in Cornwall._
HERE we are, at this grim, sad old house, which yet hath a wonderful
charm to me, maybe because it is my house. It seems such a surprising
thing to call a house mine. We have been here three or four days, and
I am not yet weary of exploring the old rooms, and asking questions of
Mistress Grace, my aunt's old bower-woman. The good soul took to me
at once, and answers all my queries with the most indulgent patience.
Albeit I am sometimes sore put to understand her. Mistress Grace, it
is true, speaks English, though with a strong Cornish accent; but some
of the servants and almost all the cottagers speak the Cornish tongue,
which is as unknown as Greek to me. Master Penrose, or Cousin Joslyn,
as he likes best to have me call him, who is very learned, says the
language is related to the Welsh.
Mistress Grace has also been very much interested in dressing up poor
Joyce. She has made the child a nice suit out of an old one of her
Lady's, combed and arranged her tangled hair, and so forth, and 'tis
wonderful how different Joyce looks. She is really very lovely. She
seems to like me well, but clings most to my Lady, whom she would fain
follow like a little dog, I think. I wish she would get over that way
of shrinking and looking so scared when any one speaks to her; but I
dare say that will come in time, poor thing. My mother says 'tis a
wonder she hath any sense left. But what a way is this of writing a
chronicle! I must begin, and orderly set down the events of our journey
as they happened.
It took some days to make our preparations, for my mother would have
me in suitable mourning before setting out. She said it was no more
than due respect to our aunt's memory, seeing what she had done for me.
'Twas like putting on my old convent weeds again; and strange to say,
seemed as new to me as if I had not worn black all my life long. Dick
(who has been away on some business of my Lord's,) coming in upon me in
the twilight, started as if he had seen a ghost.
"I thought we had seen the last of that!" said he. "Rosamond, I thought
you had done with the convent forever!"
"And so I have!" I answered; and told him how it was. Methought he did
not seem so well pleased as I should have been, had such a piece of
good luck befallen him.
"They will be more loth than ever to give you up!" said he. "The estate
of Tremador would be a fine windfall for them! Rosamond, you have need
to be on your guard! They will not let you go without a struggle. Pray
be careful and do not wander away by yourself, especially while you are
on the journey, or in Cornwall."
"Why, what do you fear for me?" I asked. "You are not used to be so
timid." I wished the words unsaid in a moment, for I saw that they hurt
him.
"'Tis not for myself, if I am timid!" he answered me, with a look of
reproach; "but I suppose plain Dick Stanton, the son of a younger son,
must not be too free with the heiress of Tremador!"
A year ago, I suppose, we should have had our quarrel out and made it
up again in our old childish fashion; but I did not feel like that now.
"Richard," says I, "did you learn that fashion of speech out of the
book you would not lend me that day in the maze? For I too have been
studying it, and I have found no such thing, but on the contrary a good
deal about thinking no evil," says I.
He had turned to go, but was back at my side in a moment. "Forgive me,
Rosamond!" he whispered; "I am very wrong!"
"That indeed you are!" said I. "Why should my aunt's will make any
difference between us, who have been playmates from the time we were
little children?"
"But we are not little children now!" he answered me, with a strange
break in his voice. "We are not children now, and never can be again:
and oh, Rosamond, I have been cherishing such sweet hopes ever since I
heard that you had given up being a nun!"
I don't know what more he might have said, but my father came in just
then, and would have all the news of Dick's journey; and we were not
alone again.
"Richard and my Lord rode one stage with us beyond Biddeford. My Lord
and my father were deep in converse (the roads being good for the first
stage, we were able to ride two abreast), and Richard rode by my side,
Harry as usual being close to my mother. But there was little chance
for any private converse, and I think we were both very silent. My Lord
would send one of his own men with us as an additional guard, though
methinks our own three, with my father and Harry, should be enough.
"I would loan you Dick here, but that he is my right-hand man—I cannot
spare him," said my Lord, as we parted. "Take care of your heart,
my fair cousin, and do not lose it to any of the Cornish knights.
Remember, 'Better a poor neighbor than a rich stranger.'"
"Aye, my Lord, but there is another proverb—'Better kind strangers than
strange kin,'" I answered.
"What, have you and Dick quarrelled? Nay, I shall not have that!"
whispered my Lord in mine ear, as he gave my cheek a parting salute.
"Be kind to him, my Rose of May! He was faithful to you when he had
many a temptation to be otherwise."
Richard kissed my cheek, as usual, at parting, but there was that in
his look and the pressure of his hand—
[I don't know why I should have drawn my pen through this, as it seems
I did. I suppose I could not yet feel that 'twas no sin to think of my
cousin. I knew then that Dick loved me, and from my Lord's whisper, I
could guess well enough that he was no ways averse to the match, and
yet I felt, I know not how, as if I had committed a mortal sin for
which yet I could not repent. The truth was, I could not yet quite come
to feel that I was a free woman, at least under no law but my father's
will. I know I rode in a kind of dream all the rest of that day.]
We reached the end of our stage about four of the clock, tired and
wearied enough, yet with no adventures more than those which I believe
befall all travellers, of tired beasts and men, plentiful splashes of
mud, and once or twice a horse stuck fast in the mire and hardly got
out again. Cousin Joslyn being with us, we were in no danger of missing
the road, as we should otherwise have been, and our numbers were great
enough to keep in awe any bands of robbers that we were likely to meet
in these parts.
We stayed the first night at a farm-house, where the good yeoman and
his wife made us heartily welcome to the best they had of fowls, bacon,
clotted cream, and I know not what country dainties, and we in return
for their hospitality told them the last news from London and the
Court. They had heard something even in this odd corner of the world of
the good Queen's disgrace, and the women were eager for particulars.
"'Tis all the fault of the new doctrines—those pestilent heresies that
crawl over the land like palmer worms," said a begging friar, a guest
like ourselves, but methought scarce so welcome. "'Tis they have put
these maggots in the King's head."
"Nay, I think you are wrong there," answered my father. "'Tis true,
Mistress Anne is reported for a Lutheran, and maybe some of the same
sort may build hopes on her advancement; but Luther himself has lifted
his voice manfully against the divorce, and Tyndale—he who has set
forth this new translation of the Gospels—"
"The curses of Mother Church and all the saints upon him!" interrupted
the friar, spitting in token of his abhorrence. "He is the arch fiend
of them all—worse than Luther himself, even!"
"Be that as it may, he hath written a letter against the divorce, and
that of the sharpest!" answered my mother. "'Tis said his Majesty's
wrath was aroused far more by the letter than it was even by the
translation of the Gospels."
"Aye, have they got the Gospels in English again?" said a very old man,
who had been sitting in a great chair, apparently unmindful of all that
was going on. (I had seen with pleasure how neat and clean he was, and
how careful the good woman was to prepare his mess of food, serving
him with the best on the board.) "Well, well, the world goes on, but
methinks it goes back as well—"
"How so, good father?" asked my mother.
"Oh, 'tis but an old man's tale now, my lady; but when I was very
young—younger than your son yonder—there was great stir about one
Wickliffe, who, 'twas said, made an English Bible. Our parish priest
had one, and read it out to us in the church many a Sunday, marvellous
good words, sure—marvellous good words. But they stopped him at last
and hied him away to some of their convent prisons. 'Twas said that
he would not recant, and they made way with him. They said 'twas rank
heresy and blasphemy—but they were marvellous good words—I mind some of
them now—'Come unto me, and I will refresh you, ye weary and laden.' It
ran like that, as I remember: 'God loved the world so that he gave his
Son—that he who believed should have—should have'—what was that again?"
"'Should have everlasting life'—was that it, my father?" said I,
speaking I know not why, from some will, as it seemed, not my own.
"Aye, that is it," answered the old man, eagerly, his wasted face
lighting up. "I thank you, my young lady—the blessing of an old man be
on your fair head—'everlasting life'—aye that is it! Bless you, Madam!
Yes, yes! 'Everlasting life!'"
"And where learned you so much, my fair lady?" asked the friar, bending
his brows on me in no friendly way.
"From the Vulgate of the blessed Saint Jerome, reverend sir," I
answered demurely. "I am convent bred, and can construe Latin."
"More's the pity," growled the friar. "They had done better to teach
you to hold your tongue, and mind your spindle and needle. 'Twas never
a good world since women and laymen learned to read and write!"
My mother made me a sign not to answer, and presently we disposed
ourselves for bed—my mother and I in one room, my father and Harry
in the other. Our beds were but of straw, but fresh and with clean
and lavendered, though very coarse linen. The good woman made many
apologies, though I am sure none were needful, and after lingering a
little came close up, and said in a whisper:
"You will not think ill of my poor gaffer, my Lady—indeed, he is no
heretic, but a godly and devout old man. You see he is more than a
hundred years old, and old men's minds do mostly run on what they have
heard and thought when young. But he is no heretic, but a good old man!"
"That I can well believe," said my mother. "I am glad his reverend
age finds such a safe and warm harbor. Believe me, good dame, your
dutifulness to him will not go unrewarded."
"Nay, we were worse than the heathen not to care for our gaffer,"
answered the woman, and again bidding us good-night, she departed.
We slept well, despite our hard beds, and were awakened early by the
crowing of fowls, the bleating of sheep, and the loud-voiced directions
of the yeoman and his dame to their men and maids. They would not let
us go till we had broken our fast, and set us down to a plentiful table
again. The old man was not in his place, and my father noticed it.
"Aye, gaffer sleeps late, and we never rouse him," said the good man.
"Besides, I had no mind he should be questioned and teased by yonder
friar. A plague on them, say I—black cattle, that spare no man's field,
but live on the work of other men. Time was when we thought the begging
friars the best of the clergy, and now I think they are every one worse
than another."
'Tis strange how the clergy generally seem to be losing their hold on
the common folk, and how little they seem to be aware of it. The good
people would take no fee for our entertainment, saying that they so
seldom had any guests that it was a pure pleasure to them. My mother,
however, prevailed on the dame to accept a hood and pinners of black
Cyprus, and a bottle of her famous bitter and spicy cordial for her
daughter, who is weakly, and failing with a cruel tertian ague, which
shakes her to pieces every spring, and hardly gives her time to take
breath before it comes again in the fall.
We travelled much more slowly the second day, over a wild country,
mostly moorland, with here and there a deep dell wherein would be a
rushing stream and a few trees, with often a cool fountain gushing
from the rocks. We saw but few inhabitants, and those of the wildest,
more like savages than aught I ever conceived of Englishmen. My Cousin
Joslyn says they are indeed savages, and all but heathen in their
usages.
"Worse than heathen, maybe," said old Job Dean, who has had no good
will to this journey from the first. "Every one knows what moormen are.
They are no more proper human beings than mermen are—brutes that make
no scruple to feed on human flesh, when by their wiles and magic arts
they cause any poor travellers to lose their way on these God-forsaken
wastes."
"Methinks no magic arts would be needed to make one lose one's way on
these moors, in darkness or a fog," said my father.
"You are right," answered Cousin Joslyn. "Many lives are lost on them
every year, not however, as I think, by any arts or cannibal tastes
of these poor savages, but from the want of any roads or hostelries,
the sudden fogs, and the treacherous nature of the soil, abounding in
bogs, quicksands, and old mining excavations made by the heathen long
ago. As for these poor creatures, I have ever found them, though timid,
distrustful and full of wild and heathen superstitions, yet kindly
disposed enow."
"You have been among them, then?" asked my mother.
"Yes, Madam, in my wanderings after herbs and simples, birds' nests
and strange stones," answered Cousin Joslyn, smiling somewhat sadly.
"The people about Tremador will tell you that I am either mad as a
March hare, or else that I am a conjuror, as dangerous as the moormen
themselves."
We ate our midday meal by the side of one of the streams I spoke of,
and seeing some of the wild people—a woman and two children, peeping
out at us from behind the bushes—my mother laid some of our abundant
provision on a rock, and by signs made them welcome; and after our
departure we looked back from the other side of the stream, and saw
them devouring the food with ravenous haste.
"Poor things! I am glad they will have had one pleasure to-day," said
my mother, nodding to the woman, who nodded in return, and made an odd
gesture, stooping to the stream, and throwing the water toward us with
her hands.
"That is to bring us good luck on our journey," observed Cousin Joslyn.
"More like to put a spell on us and our horses, that we may fall into
their power!" growled old Job. "I would like to send some arrows among
them!" So cruel is even fear, in all its shapes.
The sun had set, and it was growing dark when we entered upon the
lands of Sir John Carey, and saw his house before us on the hillside—a
tumbledown old pile, half manor house, half castle, once evidently a
stronghold, but fast falling to decay.
"That does not look as if the knight were very prosperous," said my
father.
"And its look speaks truth," answered Cousin Joslyn. "This present
knight's father lost much in the civil wars, and more by the exactions
of the late King's unworthy ministers. Sir John went up to London on
the present King's accession, and there mended his fortune by marrying
a city heiress, who brought him gold enough to have rebuilt this poor
old pile. But he was drawn into Court life, and he and his dame must
needs raffle it in velvet and cloth of gold, with masks, entertainments
and what not, till the lady's fortune was wasted in a year or two and
there was nothing for it but to return hither, and live as best they
might—and bad is the best, if all tales say true."
"Aye, 'twas then I was fool enough to lend him eight hundred pounds!"
said my father. "I fear I shall never see principal or interest again."
As he spoke, we arrived at the doors of the manor house, which stood
wide open, so that we could see within a large hall, at the upper end
of which preparations seemed to be making for supper. Out rushed a
tumultuous throng of dogs of all sorts, and blue-coated serving-men,
in every stage of shabbiness. The dogs barked, the men hallooed, our
horses, alarmed by the tumult, reared and pranced, and I began to think
we should indeed be devoured, though not by moormen, when Sir John
himself appeared at the door, and by threats, oaths, and a liberal use
of his crutch-headed staff, restored something like order. He then
advanced to my mother, and giving her his hand to alight, welcomed us
with much courtesy to his poor house. He must have been a very handsome
gentleman in his day, but he looks old and feeble, soured and peevish.
My Lady stood in the hall and greeted us in her turn, as we were
presented by her husband, with—
"Lor, Madam, I am glad to see you, though 'tis but little we can do to
make you comfortable. We are but poor country folk, now—not like what
you once knew me, Sir Stephen, when I had mine own home and purse, and
was served in my father's house like a Queen. Alack, I little thought
then I should live to see this day! But you are welcome to what we
have!"
My mother made some polite speech, such as she is never at a loss for.
I was glad I was not called on to say anything.
"And these are your son and daughter—lack a day! A fine young lady and
gentleman—but I believe they are none of yours, Madam?"
"I call them mine," answered my mother, smiling.
"Aye, to be sure—but they can never be quite the same, methinks. We
have no children now—we had a son once, but he is dead."
Her sharp voice and face softened a moment, and then grew sharper than
ever, as she exclaimed, turning to a little thin maiden with unkempt,
uncovered locks and a kirtle like a milkmaid's, of coarse stuff, and
neither clean nor whole, who had crept into the hall while she was
speaking:
"What do you here, minion? Did I not forbid you to leave your chamber?"
And with that she gave the child a blow on the side of her face which
reddened her cheek and almost threw her over. The maid gave her a
glance of defiance, and then looking at me, she suddenly blushed all
over her pale face and threat, burst into tears, and ran out of the
hall.
"I crave your pardon, madam; but 'tis such an ill-conditioned wench she
puts me past all patience. But you would like to wash before supper.
Here, Dorothy Joan, show the ladies to their rooms."
We found our rooms furnished with some richness, albeit the furniture
was old, worn, and far from well kept; and the air seemed so damp and
mouldy that I thought with regret of our last night's lodging, perfumed
with lavender and the smell of clean straw. An old woman brought water
and towels, and we arranged our dress hastily, not to keep the supper
waiting.
The meal was set out when we came downstairs, and we took our places at
the board, according to our rank. I saw Mistress Warner, my mother's
gentlewoman, regarding the board and trenchers with anything but a
pleased expression. As for my mother, if she had to sup with a pig, she
would never hurt the pig's feelings by showing any discomforture, and I
tried to follow her example.
"Where is Joyce?" asked Sir Stephen, after we were seated.
"In her chamber, I suppose," answered my Lady. "Dorothy, go and call
her."
The old woman who had waited on us went away, and presently returned
with the little maid we had seen on our arrival. She had evidently
taken some pains to put the child in order, but she was still such a
forlorn object as I am sure my mother would not permit in her scullery.
She seemed undecided where to place herself, but at a nod from Sir
John, she slipped into a vacant seat between my father and Harry.
"What a figure you are, child," quoth my Lady Carey; "but 'tis no use
to dress her," added she, turning to my mother. "One might as well
dress a hog from the sty."
The black eyes threw a glance of indignant protestation at the speaker,
which showed that their fire was not wholly quenched, and instantly
fell again.
"I knew not you had a daughter, Sir John," said my father.
"Nor have I," answered Sir John, while my Lady laughed a scornful,
affected laugh. "This is no child of mine. She is the daughter of
Jeffrey Copplestone of your parts, and a king's ward. I bought her of
her guardian, old Master Earle, for two hundred pound ready money."
"And a poor pennyworth you got of her," struck in his Lady. "'Twas an
ill day for us when she crossed the threshold."
"I thought as she had a fair portion, and a decent estate in land to
her breastlace, she might make a wife to my son," continued the old
man, never heeding his wife's interruption: "but he would none of her.
Welladay, I thought not how 'twould end! What say you, Sir Stephen,
will you take the wench off my hands, and give me a quittance of my
debt to you? Her land lies handy to your moorland estate, and you may
marry her up to your son yonder."
"For shame, Sir John! Think you such a fine young squire would wed such
a scarecrow as our black Joyce?" said my Lady Carey, with that scornful
laugh again. "Not but it would be a good riddance to get her off our
hands, I am sure. Better send her to the nunnery, and let her estate go
for masses, I say."
My blood boiled to hear them so speak of the maid to her very face,
as though she had been no better than a brute. Looking at her, I saw
her great eyes raised and fixed on my mother's, with such a look of
imploring entreaty, as one sometimes sees in those of a dumb creature.
"And so you are Jeffrey Copplestone's maid?" said my father, turning to
Joyce, and speaking kindly, as he ever does to the weak and dumb: "I
knew your father well, for an honest and brave gentleman, and we stood
more than one stricken field together. I knew not that he had left a
child."
The eyes turned on my father this time with the same imploring look,
but not a word did Joyce say. Sir John seemed in earnest in the matter,
and at last my father said they would talk it over again.
When my mother and I were withdrawn to our chamber, where a fire was
lighted by this time, which did us little good, save to replace the
smell of mold by that of smoke—when I say we were withdrawn to our
chamber, and were talking of the day's adventures, the door opened
softly, and Joyce showed her pale, scared face, as doubting whether she
should venture in. My mother smiled and stretched out her hand, and the
action seemed to re-assure Joyce, for she rushed to my mother's side
and fell on her knees, bending down as if she would kiss her very feet.
"Oh, madam, save me!" she cried, imploringly, yet low, as if afraid of
being overheard. "Beg the kind gentleman, your husband, to buy me. I
will serve you on my knees! I will herd cows or weed corn, anything so
I may but be near you and away from here. They will kill me or drive me
mad among them! Oh, take me away!"
"Poor maid," said my Lady, "poor motherless, fatherless child! Has the
world dealt so hardly with thee?"
"Aye, that has it," said another voice—that of old Dorothy, who had
come in like a mouse. "Joyce, you should not be here! Think if my Lady
should come in and find you!"
Joyce shrank and shivered at the words, as if actually beaten, but she
did not move, till after a little more coaxing and threatening she
arose, and kissing my mother's hand more than once, crept slowly away.
"I dare not let her stay, and that is the truth," said Dorothy, after
she had closed the door, coming near us and speaking low; "my Lady
would so beat her for it if she knew."
"Is she then such an ill-conditioned child?" asked my mother.
"Nay, she was well enough conditioned when she came here, five years
agone," answered Dorothy. "She is all but crazed now, and no wonder;
but she does not want for mother wit, though she hath had no teaching
such as a young lady should have. You see her father was killed in a
duel before she was born, and her mother dying in child-bed, she became
a King's ward, and old Master Earle of Biddeford got her of the King
in lieu they say of moneys advanced to his Majesty's father. Mistress
Earle was no lady, but a bustling, kindly housewife, and the girl did
well enough with her I fancy, but her husband was a true usurer and
cared for naught but money. When the good dame died, Master Earle would
no more be plagued with Joyce, but sold her to our knight, and got, so
our old steward says, by far the best of the bargain. Sir John thought
to mate Joyce with our young master. But Master Walter would have none
of her, though he was always kind and brotherly in his rough way. He
had grown up at home, and learned nothing as he ought, and nothing
would serve him but to fall in love—fall indeed—with Cicely Woodson,
our bailiff's fair daughter."
My mother here glanced at me.
"Oh, there was nothing wrong then, madam!" said the old woman,
interpreting the look. "Cicely was as proud and modest as any young
lady, aye, and as beautiful too—a fine spirited lass, as you will see.
It might have turned out well enough, only Sir John was so bent on
making up the match between Walter and Mistress Joyce. So he told his
son he must be ready on a certain day. Walter tried at first to put the
matter off, and then it all came out that he and Cicely were already
married by a begging friar. My master and her father were equally
enraged—the marriage was pronounced null—poor Cicely was hurried away
to a convent, and Walter warned that he must submit to his father.
But mark what followed! That very night he disappeared, and next day
word came that Cicely had escaped from her convent. But they followed
them—alas, poor things!—and found them at last. The woman was dragged
back to her cell—to what fate I leave you to guess—and Master Walter
was brought home and shut up in the west tower. But he went raving
mad—alack, and woe is me!—threw himself from the window, and all to
break his skull on the stones below. Poor young thing! 'Twould have
been better to own the marriage and live in peace—think you not so,
madam?"
"I do, indeed!" answered my mother, wiping her eyes. "'Tis a woeful
tale! But I see not how poor Joyce was to blame in all this?"
"No, nor I; but 'twas visited on her, for all that!" returned the old
woman. "My Lady said that Joyce might have won him if she had tried;
and that she drove him away, and what not. Poor simple child! She would
have been ready enough to wed him, methinks, as he was ever kind to
her. And indeed, madam, it would be a deed of charity to take the maid
out of her hands, for my Lady is a hard woman. And poor Mistress Joyce
would do well enough with one who was kind to her. She is ever biddable
with me."
My father coming in, old Dorothy bade us good-night and departed.
"So you are up yet, child! You should be asleep, after your journey!"
said my father, stooping to kiss my forehead. "Be thankful that you
have home and friends, my maid, and are no king's ward, to be sold like
a cow to the highest bidder!"
"Surely a cruel and hard law!" said my mother. "My heart aches for this
poor maid!" and she told my father what we had heard.
"Sir John is very earnest for me to take the girl off his hands in lieu
of his debt, or a part thereof," says my father. "'Twould be a great
charge on your hands, I fear?"
"Nay, never hesitate for that!" answered my mother, cheerily. "Sure it
would be a blessed task: but can you afford the loss and charge?"
"Nay, for that matter, I suppose the rental of the Copplestone lands is
worth something, and in a family like ours, the keeping and education
of such a child would make little difference. I am not like to see
either principal nor interest, as matters now stand, for the landed
estate is entailed, and there is, as far as I can learn, no ready
money. But we will talk farther of the matter. Rosamond, my child, get
you to bed, and God bless you!"
I did most earnestly give thanks that night for my home and my kind
parents! I could not but think, as I lay down, what if my father had
wedded such a woman as my Lady Carey! My room was a little turret
within my parents' apartment, and I fell asleep at the last to the
sound of their talking.
The next morning, when we met at breakfast, Joyce was not to be seen;
and my Lady was clearly in a very bad humor. She had arrayed herself in
much antiquated finery, to do honor to us or herself, I know not which.
It was evident there had been a storm between her Lord and herself,
from her red eyes, raised color, and the snappish remarks she directed
toward him.
The house looked a more doleful place by daylight than it had done in
the evening. The hangings were tattered and moth-eaten; the windows,
filled with horn or oiled paper, with here and there a bit of stained
glass left to tell of old magnificence, were dark with dirt, and let in
the wind everywhere; the rushes on the floor looked to be three months
old, and everything seemed forlorn and wretched.
Poor Mistress Warner told me privately that her bed had been so musty
and so full of vermin that she could not sleep; and that some one
had come into the next chamber and had there so cruelly beaten and
miscalled a young child or maid, as it seemed, that she had much ado
not to interfere. Hearing this news, I was not surprised not to see
poor Joyce.
My mother, seeing the state of the case, set herself to work to pacify
the offended lady with all that courtly skill and grace whereof she is
so completely mistress; telling her of this and that lady of quality
(I doubt the good dame did not know half of them, but that made no
difference), giving accounts of entertainments at Court and at the
cardinal's, and detailing the news of the cardinal's probable disgrace
and the King's divorce, and suit to Mistress Anne. My Lady held out for
a while, but presently smoothed her ruffled plumage, grew gracious, and
began to talk herself of the days she spent at Court. Clearly those
says had been the glory of her life. We sat a long time, but at last
she excused herself, saying that she must look into the kitchen and see
what the maids were about, and so went away in a very good humor.
"Poor woman!" said my mother. "Life must indeed be dreary to her here!
She clearly cares for naught but gayety and finery, and they are as
much out of her reach as if she were in purgatory!"
"I don't believe such a temper as hers could be very happy anywhere!"
said I.
"Perhaps not, but yet my heart aches for her, poor thing! The change
would be severe to any one, even to a woman who had many resources
in herself, and how much more to one who knows no delight save fine
clothes and fine company!"
"Methinks I should find it hard to be contented here!" I remarked. "I
am sure I should not wish to sit down content with dirt and tatters and
an ill-ordered family. I could find some days' pleasing employment in
mending these hangings and cushions, and spinning new linen for bed and
tables, and airing and ordering of chambers and the like. 'Till such
things were done, I don't believe time would hang heavy on my hands!"
"You are a born housewife, Rosamond!" said my mother, smiling. "But you
are right in this. I hope indeed you would never sit down content with
any misorder or discomfort that could be remedied. That is but a poor
kind of content. But, my child, we must strive to keep this poor lady
in a good humor, for the sake of that unfortunate maiden. Your father
tells me he is wholly inclined to take her in hand, and that Sir John
is more than willing: but my Lady would fain bestow her and her goods
on a convent, thinking thereby in some sort to benefit the soul of her
unhappy son. I believe Sir John will have his own way, but it will be
easier for all, if my Lady can be brought to consent too. I wonder
where the child is?"
Mistress Warner here told my mother what she had overheard last night.
My Lady was moved more than ordinary. Anything like oppression or
injustice always rouses her anger.
"Nay then, is the woman base beyond hope," said she, "to visit her
anger on the helpless child? Surely 'twas a kind providence brought us
to the rescue of this innocent."
"My Lady, one of the women of the house told me last night that they
all, save old Dorothy, believe that Mistress Joyce hath the evil eye,"
said Mistress Warner. "They say she overlooked the young master to his
destruction. The lady herself tells them so. Do you think it can be
true?"
"So they must bring their superstitions to bear against her, as well!"
said my mother. "Nay, Warner, the evil eye is the eye that is full of
hate, and covetousness, and uncharitableness. I see no such thing in
this poor child's glances, do you?"
"No, madam; she looked harmless enough, for all I saw!" answered the
bower-woman, who is a kind-hearted creature. "Even if she had fallen
under the power of the devil, it would be a charity to rescue her, and
methinks one who fears God has no need to fear any one less than He."
"Spoke like a Christian woman!" said my mother, and then the
conversation was ended by the return of my Lady.
Well, we stayed that day and that night, and in the afternoon the
matter was concluded; and Sir John, calling for Joyce, formally
surrendered her to my father's keeping.
"And a good riddance, I'm sure!" quoth my Lady, with her hard, affected
laugh. "I wish Sir Stephen joy of his bargain! I am only too glad to
get rid of her, the ungrateful witch!"
"Hold your tongue, Sarah!" said Sir John. "See that the child's things
are got together. Where are the gold chain and the string of pearls I
gave into your keeping? Bring them hither, and give them over to Sir
Stephen!"
"Lack-a-daisy, Sir John, how should I know?" answered my Lady,
reddening and casting anything but a friendly glance at her husband. "I
have not seen the trumpery for ages."
"You will find them, unless you want me to find them for you!" said the
knight, in a peremptory voice. "You had them in your cabinet among your
own gewgaws, I know, for I saw them. Go and fetch them here."
"Oh, very well, Sir John! So that is the way you treat your wife, that
brought you all you had, and whose wealth you have wasted, and that
before strangers! Alas, the day that ever I saw you!"
And with that she began to weep and cry aloud, and then to scream, till
she fell into a fit of the mother.
Her husband, with an impatient "Here, women, see to your mistress!"
strode out of the hall and returned presently with the jewels—a fine
heavy gold chain and a necklace of fair large pearls.
"There, take her away out of sight!" said he, thrusting the things into
my mother's hands. "Take her away, and keep her by you this night.
Maybe I have not done right by her. I wanted to wed her to my son, and
do well by her, but they would none of each other—I dare say 'twas not
her fault, after all, poor wench! There, there—go, child, go!" For
at the first kind word Joyce was at his feet and kissing his hand,
with tears and sobs. "Go with thy new friends, be a dutiful maid, and
take my blessing with thee, if the blessing of such a wretch be worth
anything."
We saw no more of my Lady. In obedience to Sir John's hint, my mother
kept Joyce at her side the rest of the day, and she shared my bed at
night. She seemed unable to believe in her own deliverance, and started
at every sound.
"She came to my room last night and beat me—oh, so cruelly!" the poor
thing whispered to me, after we were in bed, "and that was not so bad
as her words. She said I was a witch, and had bewitched her son to his
death, and that she would have me burned! Your good father wont let
them burn me, will he, Mistress Rosamond? I would not so much mind
dying, but it would be dreadful to be burned alive!"
I soothed her and told her she would be safe under my father and
mother's care, and if she would be a good and obedient maid, she might
be as happy as the day was long.
"I will try to be good!" she said, simply. "But I am so ignorant! I
have had no learning. I hardly know anything. Mistress Earle taught me
to work, and spin, and say my prayers, but I have forgot them all now.
Father Joe, our chaplain, used to teach me a prayer now and then, when
he was sober, and he was kind to me; but he died from drinking strong
ale. And then Walter died. Walter was always good—and I had no friend
save poor old Dorothy."
I told her we would teach her, and bade her try to sleep, that she
might be ready to travel in the morning; and so with much ado got her
quiet.
Early in the morning we left the hall, seeing none of the family save
Dorothy and the steward.
"Now I can breathe again!" said my father, drawing a long breath, when
we were once out on the open moors. Joyce was on a pillion behind
Cousin Joslyn, holding on very tight, and every now and then looking
round with a scared face, as though expecting pursuit. She grew easier
the farther we went, and when we were quite out of sight of the house,
she too drew a long breath, and seemed as if she were more at ease.
We rode all day, across all but pathless wastes, seeing hardly a living
thing save a few forlorn sheep tended by a wild, wolfish-looking dog
and a boy not less wild than he. Toward the middle of the afternoon,
however, we came to a hamlet, where the cottages were more decent
than any we had seen since leaving home; some of them having little
gardens, with parsnips and onions, and a few pot-herbs, and now and
then some hardy flowers. All the people came to the door at sight of
our cavalcade, and there were many reverences and smiles from men and
women. They were a large, sturdy, wild-looking race, with black curly
hair and black eyes.
"Now we are on your lands, my dear cousin," said Cousin Joslyn, turning
to me. "This is the village of Tremador, and these be your tenants and
cottagers."
I confess I was so silly at first as to feel a sense of prideful
elation at the thought that I was in some sort mistress of these people
and owner of the lands whereon I stood: but my second thought, I trust,
was a better one, and I inwardly breathed a prayer that in so far as
I had special duties toward these good folks, I might have grace to
fulfil them.
"Truly a fine-looking people!" said my mother. "And the cottages are
far better than I expected to see in these remote parts."
"That is mostly my late mistress' doing," remarked Master Penrose.
"She could abide naught like sluttishness, or waste, or unthrift, and
made constant war on them. Then we have an excellent parish priest—no
drunken Sir John, like him down at the place we left this morning but a
good and devout man, whose life is as pure as his prayers. Sir Stephen,
there stands an old playmate of yours and mine—old Jasper, who helped
us to take the falcons on the cliff."
My father must needs stop to see his ancient friend, and we soon had a
crowd about us, all naturally eager to see their new lady and their old
friend Master Joslyn. But they were no ways rude or prying, and when
we rode away, followed us with many good wishes and welcomes, or so my
cousin said, for they almost all speak the Cornish tongue, which, of
course, is so much Greek to me.
Our road, now a fairly good one, led us away from the village, and
skirted a long and high hill, near the top of which was perched the
church, with a very high gray tower.
"What an odd place for the church!" says Harry.
"Yes, they say the devil had a hand in the building of many of our
Cornish churches, and I don't wonder," answered Cousin Joslyn: "they
are put in such inaccessible places. In the winter storms 'tis all but
impossible for the village folk to reach this one, and my Lady had a
scheme for erecting a chapel down in the hamlet yonder, but she never
carried it out."
We went on for nearly another mile, rising ever higher, though by
somewhat slow gradations, till we reached all at once the top of the
ridge. Then what a view burst upon us! There was the sea standing up
like a blue wall, so high were we above it, the land falling off to our
right in a sheer precipice, at the foot of which were jagged rocks,
among which the waves broke wildly, though it was a clear, calm day.
In front of us opened a lovely valley—what we in our parts call a
coombe—filled with woods, among which roared a brawling stream, which
tumbled into the glen at the upper end in a fine cataract, of which we
could catch a glimpse.
Nestling in the mouth of this glen, with a south-western exposure,
lay the gray old house of Tremador, surrounded with great nut trees,
and one huge pile of verdure, which Cousin Joslyn said was a Spanish
chestnut. It had a homelike look to mine eyes from the first.
"The old house looks just the same," quoth my father: "I could expect
to find my aunt seated in her parlor, with her cat and its kitlings in
a basket by her side, just as I left them thirty years agone."
"You will find the cat and the kitlings, though not quite the same that
you left," answered Cousin Joslyn. "But the house can never be the same
to me again, now that my dear old friend and mistress is gone! But here
we are. Welcome home to your own house, my fair Cousin Rosamond! Master
Toby, you remember my Cousin Stephen; and this is his Lady, and this is
Mistress Rosamond, your new lady and mistress."
Master Toby the steward, bent low to each of us, specially to my
unworthy self, and then came Mistress Grace, and the men and the maids,
all gathered in the hall to meet us. I don't know how I acquitted
myself, but I know I never felt so young and insignificant in all my
life.
Mistress Grace marshalled us all to our rooms. I was to have my aunt's,
by her special direction, while my father and mother, as was fitting,
had the room of state. Dame Grace says some king once slept there,
but she can't tell who it was. She thinks 'twas either his Majesty
Henry Sixth or King Alfred. I could not but smile, but Cousin Joslyn
tells me, that though the unhappy Henry did really pass a night under
this roof, there is a tradition that some sort of house stood here in
Alfred's time, and that the royal fugitive was really here in some
of his many wanderings. A part of the house is as old as the time of
Edward the Confessor, and with its heavy, thick walls, low arches,
and general massive roughness, makes me think of our shrine of St.
Ethelburga, which I shall never see again.
[That was a mistake of mine. I saw all I desired and more of that
famous shrine afterward.]
We have now been here four days, and I am beginning to feel at home. I
have made friends with the old cat, who after considering me a while,
went off and returned with a mouse, which mouse she deposited in my lap
with an air of great satisfaction. Cousin Joslyn says it was a tender
of service. I praised the old cat and took the mouse in my hand, and
then delivered it over to the kits, at which their mother seemed quite
satisfied. 'Twas an odd, but methought a mighty pretty trick of the
poor brute, and I could see that Mistress Grace took it for a good omen.
I think Joyce is, however, the happiest of any one. As I said, we have
arrayed her anew in a dress something suited to her quality, and with
her tangled locks smoothed and covered, her face and hands washed, and
her eyes growing less like a scared and beaten hound's, she is really a
lovely child. She is sixteen years old, but is so small and slight she
might easily pass for twelve, which my mother says is all the better,
as she is so backward in her education. She has never learned to read,
and has forgotten all she ever knew about her religion, save a Hail
Mary and a fragment of her paternoster, which she says the chaplain at
the hall taught her.
Finding my late aunt's spindle and distaff lying in my room, she
begged that she might try to spin, saying that she had once learned
of Mistress Earle, and after some trials, in which she showed great
patience, she had the spindle dancing merrily on the floor, and drew
out a very smooth even thread. She has asked me to teach her to
read, and I am going to try. Untaught as she is in everything that
it behooves a young lady to know, even in such every-day matters as
eating and sitting properly, she is attentive to the slightest hint
of my mother or Mistress Warner, who has taken the poor orphan into
her kind heart at once, and is laying out great plans for teaching her
white-seam, cut-work, and lace-making. Warner has the sense and wisdom
to show great deference to Mistress Grace, as being so many years the
elder, and they get on well together; and indeed Mistress Warner is a
good Christian woman, as my mother says.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXXIII.
_July 30._
THIS morning, coming into the hall, I found Joyce quite in ecstasies
over a pair of young choughs that Harry had got for her at the risk
of his neck. Harry, who is usually very shy of strange young ladies,
takes wonderfully to Joyce. She on her part takes to everybody, and is
growing so full of spirits that mother now and then has to check her
a little. She is very good in general, I must say, though she now and
then shows her want of training in a little outburst of temper, and
yesterday was so rude to Grace that mother ordered her to beg pardon,
and on her refusal sent her to her room. Going thither some hour or two
after, I found her drowned in tears, because she had offended my mother.
"You can easily make matters right," said I. "Go and beg my mother's
pardon and Grace's also, and all will be well."
"If it were anything but that," said she. "But to beg pardon of a
servant!"
I could hardly control my smiles, remembering the state wherein we had
found her not two weeks agone, but I said gravely:
"As to that, Joyce, Grace's father was as good as your own, and if
he had been a hind, 'twould make no odds. 'Tis obedience my mother
requires, and she is right. Besides, you have no right to despise
servants. Don't you know that our Lord Himself came not to be
ministered to, but to minister, and He says Himself, 'if any man will
be great among you, let him be your servant.' Let me read you something
about that in a book that tells all about Him."
So I fetched my Testament and read to her about our Lord's washing the
apostles' feet. She was impressed, I could see, but her pride rose.
"If it were anything else," she said. "I would fast all day, or lie on
the floor, or—"
"Or do anything else that you wished to do, but not your plain duty,"
said I, interrupting, for I began to be vexed with her. "What does my
mother care for your fastings, or lying on the floor? Or what boots all
these tears, so long as you are proud, and wilful, and disobedient to
the friend who has rescued you from misery—perhaps from such a dreadful
death as my Lady Carey threatened you with? One simple, honest act of
obedience is worth all the tears, and fastings, and penances in the
world."
And with that I left her. I think my words had their effect, for an
hour after she came weeping to my mother, and knelt by her very humbly,
saying that she had begged Grace's pardon and received it. My mother,
on that, gave the child her hand to kiss, and bade her bring her work
and sit on the stool beside her. So all was sunshine once more, and I
think the lesson has done Joyce good.
I have been making acquaintance with the village folk, specially the
women and children. They are very cordial to me, and make much of me
wherever I go, but I can understand very little unless I have Grace or
Cousin Joslyn as interpreter. I am trying to learn something of their
language. Some of the younger people, and most of our own servants
speak English, after a sort, but they are all much delighted whenever
I muster confidence enough to air my few Cornish phrases. They seem
a good, kindly, simpleminded set, very fond of Cousin Joslyn, who is
their physician and counsellor in all their trouble, looking up to
the priest with religious awe, and having as few vices as one could
reasonably expect.
They seem fond of the memory of their old Lady, though one of the
younger women whom I visited without Grace, and who speaks English
fairly, told me her Lady was "mortal tiresome and meddlesome about
cleaning and rearing of babies." I hope I shall not be mortal tiresome,
but if ever I come here to live, 'tis a wonder if I don't have my say
about the rearing of these same babes.
I have already talked with Cousin Joslyn and Father Paul about a plan
for a dame school, where at least the maidens might be taught the use
of their fingers, in spinning, knitting, and mending of their clothes.
Mistress Warner demurs at the knitting, which she says is work for
ladies, like embroidery and cut-work, and not for cottage maids. But
since it makes good warm hosen, I see not why they should not learn it
as well as spinning.
Our priest, Father Paul, as he likes to be called, instead of Sir Paul,
is one of an hundred. I never saw a better, purer face than his, though
'tis wonderful thin and worn, and by times full of care. He preaches
every Sunday to the people, and repeats whole chapters of the Gospels
and Epistles. Last Sunday 'twas that same which the Bishop gave us in
the convent, upon charity, though I did not know then whence it came.
('Tis strange how far away seem those old convent days. I can hardly
think I am the same maid who was content to spend hours over a cut-work
cope, and never had a thought beyond what my superiors told me, or a
doubt but that all our endless litanies to the Saints and our Lady were
true prayers. But this is by the way.) I am sure Father Paul reads the
Scriptures a great deal, for he is always repeating them to the people,
as I said, and makes the most clear and practical applications of them
to the common matters of every-day life.
Then he visits a great deal from house to house, specially where there
is sickness or any trouble and he has composed many quarrels, to which
these Cornish folk are a good deal given. He has made acquaintance
with many of the wild moormen, and even persuaded some of them to come
to the church now and then, to be wedded, and to have their babes
christened.
I saw one of these weddings one day, and gave the bride a kerchief,
which I had put in my pocket for some one in the village. The whole
party were greatly pleased, and this morning the old mother of the
bride came and brought me a great basket of whortleberries, the finest
I ever saw. She would have no pay, so I gave her a pair of scissors
and some needles, and Mistress Grace added what the poor thing seemed
to value more than anything, a great loaf of brown wheaten bread. She
gave us to understand that her child (not the bride, but another) was
very ill, and could eat little, but would like the bread. Thereupon
Grace, always compassionate, added a pot of honey, and a bottle of some
cordial medicine to her gift, and the poor woman went away very happy.
'Tis strange with what a mixture of awe and contempt the servants and
villagers regard these wild folk, who do indeed seem of another race
than themselves. Cousin Joslyn thinks the moor folk are remnants of the
first race who inhabited the country. I wish something might be done
for them. But indeed I might say the same for the whole land, not only
of Cornwall, but of our own Devon, and of all England.
Under what a worse than Egyptian darkness it lies! But one can see
the glimmering of dawn, and here and there a mountain top touched by
the sun; and I cannot help hoping that better days are at hand. My
mother, however, is not sanguine—that is, she believes the truth will
prevail, but only after long waiting, and many hard, and it may be
bloody struggles. She has known the King from childhood, and she says
she believes if he puts down the power of the Pope in this country
'twill be only to set himself in his place. But these are too high and
dangerous matters for me.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXXIV.
_Aug. 3._
SAD news! A courier came from home last night with the mournful tidings
that my Lord's little son seems to be failing fast, and begging us to
hurry home as quickly as possible, that they may have the benefit of
my mother's counsel. Alas, poor little boy! I can see that my mother
has little hope of finding him alive, from the account which Master
Ellenwood writes of his state. Jasper Ellenwood, who hath been bred a
physician in the best Dutch and Paris schools, is at the Court night
and day, but he gives little encouragement.
We leave to-morrow. Joyce is quite heart-broken at leaving Mistress
Grace, to whom, since their quarrel, she hath greatly attached herself,
and bestows some of her tears also upon a beautiful young Spanish cat *
which Cousin Joslyn hath bestowed on her. Father says she may take it
home if she can get one of the men to carry it. The choughs, her other
pets, she leaves with Cousin Joslyn to be taught to speak.
* What we now call a tortoise-shell—then a mighty rarity.—D. C.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXXV.
_Aug. 5._
HERE we are at home again, safe and sound, having made the journey in
less than three days. The poor babe is alive, and that is all. My Lady
is like a ghost so pale, wasted and woe-begone; but keeps up for the
sake of her husband and child. I see my mother has great fears for her.
_Aug. 12._
My mother being so much at the great house, Joyce naturally falls to
me. She has been put to sleep in the little green room which opens into
mine, and sits with me every morning doing her task in the hornbook and
in sewing and spinning. She takes to the use of her fingers readily
enough, but is sadly dull at her book. Master Ellenwood, whom I
consulted, advised me to give her pen and ink and let her imitate the
letters, and I think we shall get on better. She is so good and tries
so hard, that I cannot for very shame get out of patience with her. In
the afternoon we take long walks and rides with Master Ellenwood or
Harry for escort, or go to see the sick folk in the village.
The babe still lingers, but we have no hope of his life. My Lord is
like one distracted, but more I think for the mother than the child. He
depends for everything on Richard, and can hardly bear to have him out
of sight; so we see little of Dick. He will be the next heir if this
poor boy dies, unless there are others. The prior said as much to him
the other day, adding "that 'twas an ill wind," etc., (a fine speech
for a Churchman). My father said Richard's brow grew black, but he
answered courteously:
"If my prayers could keep the child alive, my reverend Father, he would
live to be as old as Abraham."
Whereat my father said the prior had the grace to look ashamed. Poor
old man, he himself cares for naught but money, and I suppose he can't
understand how any one can be really disinterested.
I must not forget to say that the Spanish kitling made the journey in
the pocket of Harry's horseman's coat, sorely discomposed at times by
the shaking, and wailing pitifully, but on the whole behaving very well.
We stopped for one night we were on the road at the same yeoman's house
as before, and had the same hearty welcome. We heard that they found
the old gaffer dead in his bed the next day but one after our visit.
The dame said the words he had repeated to us were constantly on his
lips the last day of his life, and when she put him to bed, he asked
her "when that young lady would come again?" and left his blessing
for me. And after she left him, she heard him murmuring over and
over—"everlasting life—everlasting life." Truly a happy end.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXXVI.
_Aug. 18._
THE dear babe is gone—he died on the morning of the thirteenth, and is
buried in the churchyard of the Priory Church, where both families have
a right. My Lady tries to keep up, but grows more feeble every day. My
Lord is with her every moment, Richard taking all cares off his hands.
"I wolde not brethren have you ignoraunt as concernynge them which
are fallen aslepe, that ye sorowe not as wother do which have no hope.
For yf we beleve that Jesus died, and rose agapne: even so them also
which slepe by Jesus, will God brynge agapne with him . . . Therfore
comfort youre selves one another with these wordes."
Tessalonyans chap iv
[These words gave me great comfort in my sorrow, so I have copied them
here.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXXVII.
_Aug. 20._
THIS morning my father and mother called me to a conference. I knew my
Lord had been with them, and went thinking of nothing more important
then perhaps that my Lady desired me to stay with her; but saw at once
by their faces that there was more in the matter than that. My mother
bade me to a seat beside her, and then my father said:
"Rosamond, here has been my Lord proposing—asking—" then turning to my
mother: "Madam, do you be spokesman—I am a fool, and that is the whole
on't!"
"My Lord has been proposing a match for you, daughter, and your father
wishes to know your mind before giving him an answer. Richard Stanton
wishes to make you his wife, and my Lord also desires the match."
"You see, Dick is the next in succession, and my Lady is very frail,"
added my father, "so 'tis proper and right that Dick should marry.
It seems, however, that Master Dick will have nobody but his country
cousin, after all the fair ladies he has seen at court and abroad, and
my Lord thinks he could not do better."
I was covered with confusion, and could hardly look up.
"Well, what say you, chick?" asked my father. "Wilt wed Dick Stanton,
and live here at home? You might doubtless make a richer and greater
match, for even if my Lady should not recover, my Lord is of an age to
marry again, and with my aunt's estate for a portion, you will not go
begging. But we all know and like Dick, who is good and true as the
day, and not so badly portioned either for a younger son; besides that,
my Lord will give him the estate of Coombe Ashton, if he weds to his
liking. So what say you, daughter, for all rests with you? I will wed
no child of mine against her will."
I managed to murmur that I had no wish to oppose the will of my parents
and my kinsman; whereat my mother bent down and kissed my brow, saying
with a little gentle mischief:
"See you, Sir Stephen, what a dutiful child we have here!"
"Aye, well broke, as old Job's horse, which would always go well on the
road homeward," said my father, smiling. "But what think you my Lady
Abbess will say, my Rose?"
"I fear she will be grieved," I answered; "but I could not have
returned to her, at any rate. Sister Catherine will say it is just what
she always expected!"
"I dare say she would fly at the chance herself, the old cat!" said
my father. "Well, Rosamond, I am heartily glad your choice jumps so
well with ours in this matter, for though I would have preferred Dick
above many a richer and greater suitor, I would never wed a child
of mine against her will. I saw enough of that in mine own mother's
case, who lived and died a broken-hearted woman; aye, and that though
my father would have coined his very heart's blood to save her. She
was a model of wifely duty and reverence too, poor Lady, but the one
thing my father longed for, that she could never give. Well, well! God
bless thee, child, with all my heart: thou bast ever been a dutiful
daughter to me and to her that is gone. Well, I must go see my Lord
and Dick, who is pacing the maze like a caged lion. There will be need
of a dispensation, and I know not what, beside the settlements for our
heiress here. What think you, chick? Does Dick seek you for the sake of
Aunt Rosamond's acres and woods?"
"Not he!" answered my mother for me. "One must have been an owl indeed
not to see how matters were long before Rosamond had any title to
acres or woods. I had a shrewd guess at it before ever I saw Rosamond
herself, when our young squire used to linger beside me in London to
talk of his cousin, when others were dancing. I thought then it would
be a shame for the cloister to part two true lovers."
I could not but rejoice in my heart when I heard this, that Richard had
preferred talking of me, even when his love must have been well-nigh
hopeless, to dancing with those court ladies of whom Mistress Anne told
me. I never did believe a word she said, the treacherous viper!
All this chanced only this very morning, and already it seems ages
agone. Dick and I have had a long talk together down at the spring,
where we used to have so many. How that place used to haunt my dreams
in the convent! Father Fabian said 'twas a temptation of the devil, and
I never would let my mind dwell on it in the day-time; but I could not
hinder its coming back at night.
As we sat on our old moss-grown seat by the clear well, we saw a
chaffinch—perhaps the very one Dick showed me on the eve of Alice's
marriage—flying in and out among the bushes with its young brood. I
took it for a good omen.
As we sat there, gazing down into the spring, a shadow fell on us, and
looking up, there was Patience, my mother's bower-woman.
"So it has come to this, even as I said!" said she, with no form of
greeting.
"Not quite!" I answered. "You said my mother would wed me with a
kinsman of her own."
"So it has come to this!" she repeated again, paying no heed to my
words. "You, Mistress Rosamond, who were consecrated before you were
born, and wore the veil in your very cradle—you are returned to the
world, even as your mother did before you!" Then changing her tone,
and falling on her knees at my feet: "Oh, Mistress Rosamond, don't!
For love of your own soul, don't go to throw yourself away thus—don't
bring down wrath and shame on your head, and doom your mother's soul
to endless woe! I know you don't love me, and maybe you have small
cause; but I loved your mother, and I nursed you when a fair babe. Oh,
Mistress Rosamond, think before it is too late!"
The woman was fairly convulsed with sobs.
"Nay, Prue, why should I bring woe on my head by obeying my father?"
said I. "I never was professed, so I break no vows, and why cannot I
serve God as well in the married state, which was that of Saint Peter
himself, as in a convent? St Peter was married, and so was St. James,
and what was good enough for them should be for me, surely."
"And St. Paul says, marriage is honorable in all—remember that,
Prudence!" says Dick. "And when our Lord was on earth, he went to a
wedding and turned the water into wine for the poor folks."
"I don't believe it!" says Prue.
"Then you don't believe the Gospels, and that is worse than being
married," answered Dick, gayly; and with more of his old mischief
than I have seen in him for a long time. "Come, Prue, be a reasonable
woman, and here's a good Harry gold piece to buy you a new gown for the
wedding."
"I shall never see that wedding!" said she, never noticing the money he
held out to her. "I have warned you and entreated you, and all in vain.
Your blood be on your own heads, if you persevere! Only remember, when
the stroke comes, that I warned you!"
And with that she turned away and left us.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
_Aug. 30—the day after._
THE formalities are all arranged, and to-morrow I shall be a wedded
wife. The matter has been hurried for Harry's sake, because he must
sail so soon, and also because my Lord will take my Lady to her own old
home, which she yearns to see again. Perhaps they may also go abroad in
search of a milder climate, though the disturbed state of affairs makes
that doubtful.
We are to keep house at the Court till they return, and then go to
our own house at Coombe Ashton. I would like to live awhile at least
at Tremador, for my heart is drawn to my people there, and perhaps we
shall do so. I am glad my mother has Joyce, who gains on our hearts
every day. She is very loving and easily swayed, though, as was to be
expected, she has many faults, the worst of which, in my mother's eyes
and mine, is a want of truth. If she commits any fault or meets any
mishap, she will lie to hide it.
My mother says it is just what she should expect in any one so severely
handled as Joyce has been, and she believes it may be overcome by
kindness and wise treatment: and she did yesterday come to my mother,
bringing a drinking glass she had broken. Nobody saw her do it, and the
mishap might have been laid on that universal scape-goat, the cat; so
we think it a hopeful sign.
She was overwhelmed with grief when she found I was going away as well
as Harry, and I could hardly pacify her by promises of visits and
what not. She would fain have bestowed on me her greatest treasure,
the Spanish cat, bringing it in her arms with her eyes running over
with tears: but I showed her that 'twould be unkind to Cousin Joslyn
to part with his present, and that Puss would be unhappy away from
her, and proposed instead, that as she can really spin wonderful well,
she should make me some hanks of fine woollen thread for my knitting;
whereat she was comforted. She is a dear maid, all the more engaging
from her odd blending of the young child and the woman.
There are only two things to make me at all uncomfortable. One is that
I have had a most sad and reproachful letter from dear Mother Superior.
She regards my marriage as nothing less than sacrilege, and implores me
to cast off my betrothed husband and return to the arms of my Heavenly
Spouse who will receive me even now; and if I am faithful in penance
and prayer, may make me all the brighter saint for this sacrifice.
But that is not the worst of it. She says she has heard that both my
step-dame and Lady Stanton are infected with the new doctrine. She
says that she has it from a sure hand that my mother was in London a
constant associate of my Lady Denny and other well-known heretics, and
was believed to have sent relief both in money and food to heretics
under sentence in the common prisons. She lays all my apostasy, as she
calls it, to the account of my Lady Corbet, and implores me to fly from
the tyranny and ill-guidance of my cruel step-dame to the arms of my
true Mother.
I must own that I shed some tears over this letter, remembering
ancient kindness, and grieving over the grief of the dear Mother who
was ever kind to me, even when I was under a cloud concerning the
affair of Amice Crocker; but it has not shaken my determination one
whit. I believe (besides what I owe to my espoused husband), I am
in the plain path of duty in obeying my natural born father. Seeing
the truth as I do now, returning to the convent would be one of two
things—either going into a regular course of hypocrisy and denying
of the truth in every word and action, or it would be going straight
to disgrace, imprisonment, and perhaps a dreadful death! The very
foundations of mine ancient life were shaken by Amice Crocker's death
and the circumstances attendant thereon, and they have been utterly
ruined and pulled down by what I have since heard and read for myself
in Holy Scripture. I cannot build them again if I would, and I would
not if I could. As to my mother's promise concerning me, 'twas made in
ignorance, and I do not believe she would now desire me to fulfil it. I
could not do it, even if I were not promised to Richard. I can honestly
say that I have tried to decide rightly, and I believe I have done so.
My mind is at ease, so far as that is concerned.
The other thing which troubles me is that Harry must leave us the very
day after the wedding. I think his desire for the voyage hath suffered
some diminution of late, specially since Joyce has come to live with
us: but he hath too much of my father in him to give up lightly any
purpose he hath gravely formed. He hath grown much more manly and
serious of late. His whole collection of pets—dogs, horses, the old
donkey, the peacock, and all, he hath consigned to Joyce—all save the
old bloodhound, which will follow nobody but himself and my mother.
My father hath given me a beautiful Spanish genet, and another horse
for my own riding, with all new furniture for the same. I have half my
own mother's clothes and jewels, and great store of new garments and
ornaments from my parents and my Lady, and a cupboard of plate, far too
fine for a simple squire's dame, from my Lord.
Captain Hawkins came yesterday and brought me a piece of beautiful silk
stuff from the Levant, and two fine carpets, soft almost as velvet, and
of the richest colors. He says in the East, and even in Venice, they
use these beautiful carpets on their floors, which seems a mighty waste.
Master Jasper Ellenwood gave me a Venice gold chain, and a drinking
glass in a case, with other conveniences. He is a fine, grave
gentleman, and I have learned much from him about ways of living
abroad, specially in Holland, which country must be a kind of paradise
of good housekeepers. It is even true that they use no rushes on their
floors, which are scoured two or three times a week, and many even of
the common houses have glass windows. By this neatness they escape many
plagues in the shape of vermin, specially fleas; but I should think
such constant washing and dampness would breed rheums and fevers.
I must not forget another of his presents, a beautiful cup made of a
kind of fine pottery ware, only much harder and lighter than any of
our pottery, and ornamented with painting and gilding which will not
wash off, but are in the very substance of the ware. He says these
dishes are brought from Cathay, where even the common people use them
for eating, and also for drinking a kind of broth of certain dried
herbs, which makes a great part of their living. Poor diet, methinks,
which would hardly content Englishmen, though Master Jasper says 'tis a
healthful and refreshing drink.
It is really a wonderful thing to see a man who has been in Cathay
and the Indies. Richard has asked him to visit us by-and-by, and he
has promised. His advice has been of great use to my Lady, and though
he could not save the poor babe, his constant care of the child has
endeared him greatly to the family, so that my Lord would fain have him
take up his abode with them.
There is a rumor afloat, which nobody can trace, that a pirate vessel
hath been seen on the coast hereabouts, but my father and Captain
Hawkins do not think it true. Still there are many lurking-places on
these wild shores, where such a vessel might hide, and it behooves us
all to be careful. Master Ellenwood says he has seen English boys and
girls sold as slaves in the Bagnios of Constantinople and Egypt.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXXIX.
_Coombe Ashton, Sept. 10._
HERE am I, Rosamond Corbet no more, but Rosamond Stanton, a sober
matron of a week's standing. After all we changed our plans at the
last, and came on here the day but one after the wedding, on account of
some business which had to be attended to. Alice was quite furious at
my being carried off so soon, but none of us at Stanton-Corbet were in
any mood for festivity, and I was by no means sorry to escape the usual
round of wedding banquets and jests, and have a little time to think.
My father and mother and Joyce came over with us, and left us only this
morning.
We are all sad at Harry's going away, and Joyce is broken-hearted. I
expected from her a tempest of grief, and then all over; but it goes
much deeper than that. I do believe those two childish hearts have
waked up to real love. I had a long talk with Joyce yesterday, telling
her how she must strive to be docile and cheerful, so as to take my
place as a daughter at home, and make them all happy.
"I will do my best," said she, "but I can never make your place good,
Rosamond."
"Nobody can ever exactly fill another's place perhaps," said I; "but we
can all do our best to adorn our own. You have a great deal to learn,
'tis true, but your capacity is good, and in my mother and Master
Ellenwood you have the kindest of teachers. Now, what are you smiling
at?"
"Because you talk so old!" answered the saucy popinjay. "One would
think Mistress Stanton was twenty years older than our Rosamond!"
"Whereas she is really many years younger," I answered, glad to see her
laugh, though at my own expense. She sobered down, however, and begged
my pardon for her sauciness, adding that she meant to be very good, and
learn everything that my mother would teach her.
"And I mean to be happy, too!" she added, very resolutely, though
with some bright drops standing in her eyes. "I am so thankful to Sir
Stephen, that it does not seem as if I could ever do enough for him.
Madam says I must thank God too, and I do. When I think how I lived
with my Lady Carey, it seems as if I had been in a bad dream from which
you came and waked me. It was a blessed wakening for me."
And for us too, I told her, and indeed I think it will prove so—she
shows herself so well conditioned, and it will be a real blessing to
Harry to have a wife brought up under our mother's eye. But that is
looking very far forward.
There is no village here, only a little fishing hamlet, at the mouth of
the Coombe; but to my surprise I find they have really a dame school,
taught by a woman who came hither last year. There is no church nearer
than Clovelly, which is three miles away, and Stanton, which is just as
far in the other direction.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XL.
_Sept. 12._
I HAVE been very busy ordering my house and my servants, by the help
of Mrs. Warner, whom my mother has lent me till I shall be more at
home. She is a great help by her experience and cleverness, and a right
pleasant companion as well. She owned to me that she did sometimes long
for London, but nevertheless was quite content wherever her mistress
was. She has lived with my mother since the days of her first marriage,
and travelled with her both in England and in foreign parts, and
her mind is enlarged much beyond the ordinary waiting-gentlewoman's
tittle-tattle. If it were not selfish toward her and my mother, I would
love to keep her altogether.
We went down this afternoon to see the village, if it can be called
so, and especially the school of which we had heard. All the men were
abroad fishing, as usual, but the women made us very welcome. I found
them all speaking well of the schoolmistress, though they owned that
they had thought it nonsense at first; but two little orphan maids whom
she took in, made such marvellous progress in spinning and sewing that
the mothers were soon won over. It seems she asks no fees in money
(of which indeed they have next to none), but is content with enough
of fish and fuel to eke out the product of her own goats, hens, and
herb-garden, which she works with her own hands.
After chatting with one and another, we went on to the school, a decent
but very small cottage, from the door of which, as we came up, streamed
forth some dozen of urchins, who all stopped to stare at the new lady,
of course, and then awaking to a sense of manners, they went off in
quite a shower of reverences from the girls, and bobs from the little
lads, all the latter very small, of course. I asked the name of one and
another, but could extract very little from their shyness. One little
girl, however, rather older than the rest, told us her name was Jane
Lee—which is next to no name at all, in these parts.
"And what is your dame called?" I asked.
"Oh, just our dame. Mammy calls her Dame Madge."
Just then the dame herself appeared at the door, and I could hardly
repress a cry as I recognized in the tall spare figure, and strong but
kindly features, one associated with the most solemn passage of all my
life—one whom I last saw as the doors of St. Ethelburga's shrine closed
on her—Magdalen Jewell! I saw too that she knew me, for she turned
very pale. She has grown quite gray, and looks older and more bent,
but the repressed fire still shines in her eyes as when she bade Queen
Catherine and the rest of us welcome to her cottage at Torfoot. I put
my finger on my lip, and I saw she comprehended the signal. She asked
us into the cottage, and placed seats for us with all her old courtesy;
and while I was puzzling my brains how to begin, she relieved me of my
trouble in the most natural way possible.
"I knew not that our young lady of the manor was to be one whom I
had seen before!" said she. "You are most welcome, madam, to my poor
cottage."
Then to Warner, who looked surprised: "I used to live some way from
the convent where the lady was educated, and have seen her both in the
church and at the convent gate, helping the kind ladies distribute
their alms."
"And I was at your cottage on the moor with good Queen Catherine and
her bower-woman," I added. "Do you not remember?"
"I do, though I knew not then it was the Queen!" answered Magdalen. "Do
you know, madam, how it fares with that good lady?"
I told her very ill, I feared; and then spoke of the work she had taken
in hand.
"Aye, 'tis little I can do!" she answered, "Yet every little helps, and
the poor maids are out-of-the-way at home. They take well enough to
spinning and making of nets, and I would fain teach them to sew, but
needles and thread are so hard to come by, that the mothers do not like
to waste them in such little hands!"
I told her I would supply her with both, if she would come up to the
house. I was burning with a desire to see her alone.
"Is not the air here bad for your health?" I ventured to ask her.
"Nay, I think not," she answered, taking my meaning at once. "I have
had no trouble heretofore."
Mistress Warner now reminded me that it was growing late, and we took
our leave. In the evening Magdalen came up to the house, and Richard
and I got from her the history of her adventures. She said she had
remained in a hiding-place she knew of for three or four days, till
danger of pursuit was over, and had then made her way across the moor,
disguised as a hawker of small wares, till she reached this place,
where she thought herself safe, as there is little or no communication.
And indeed there are no roads across the moors which lie between us
and my old home, though we are not many miles away. Magdalen was much
touched at hearing of the manner of Amice Crocker's death.
"'Twas a blessed end," she said; "and yet I must needs grieve that her
young life should be laid down for my old one."
"I do not so regard it," I said. "I believe Amice must soon have died
at any rate, and what she did could only at worst have hastened the end
a little."
"Her work was done and yours was yet to do," said my husband (the name
comes strangely to my pen, even yet). "You are doing a good work here,
and so far as my power reaches you, shall be protected in it. Only keep
your own counsel, and I trust all will be well."
[These few leaves which follow were writ first on certain small bits
of paper, which I chanced to have in my pocket; but in such a cramped
hand, and so uncertainly in the darkness, that I had much ado to read
them myself when I tried to make the fair copy which I have put in
here. I have kept the first leaves, and the very sight of them seems to
bring over me the close and heavy smell of the vault just as the odor
of crushed ivy will ever bring to mind that stormy October morning.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XLI.
_St. Ethelburga's Shrine, Sept. 30._
I DON'T know that any one who loves me will ever see these lines, but
stranger things have happened, and I will never give up while I live
the hope of seeing my husband again. For his sake I will keep my senses
together, by God's help, through all the horrors of this place, and of
all with which they threaten me. Yea, if one of these niches, as that
fiend threatened, is destined to enclose me alive, I will struggle to
the last. I will never give up. Magdalen escaped from this place, and
why not I? Only no one knows I am here. They will all think I have been
carried away by the pirates.
But it may be His will even yet to save me, and if so, none of their
schemes, however artfully laid, but must fall to the ground. And if
I am to suffer for my faith, I know He will support me to the end,
as He did Amice and has done many another. By His help I will never
deny Him; and they shall never make me say I am sorry for marrying my
husband—never! I glory in his name! I cherish the memory of his last
embrace, when we thought ourselves parting for but a few hours, and I
know we shall meet again where no malice or wrath of man can part us.
Yet my spirit shrinks to think of his return to his desolate home! Oh,
Richard, Richard! Oh, to see thee once—only once again!
Mistress Warner and I had set out to walk down to the cove to see a
child, one of Magdalen's pupils, who had met with a bad scald. Richard
had ridden over home, meaning to be back at night. We had gone about
half way, when I remembered some linen I had meant to bring for a
lying-in woman, and sent Warner back for it—I sitting meanwhile on a
rock which formed a natural seat beside the stream. I had sat thus but
a few moments, when I heard, or so I believed, a child crying in the
wood close at hand. I thought of nothing but that one of the children
from the hamlet had got astray, and as I always run about our own woods
without fear, I went to seek it. I was well within the shadow of the
woods, when all at once I felt myself seized from behind—a cloak was
thrown over my head, and I was so muffled that I could not scream or
make any noise to be heard.
"Make no resistance, Mistress!" said a man's voice. "If you utter a
sound, you die the next moment!"
I was in their power, and there was no help, so I submitted; and being
bound, I was carried some distance, and then found myself in a boat
from which I was lifted up the side of a vessel and placed below. The
air was stifling, even if my head had not been covered; but at last the
cloak was removed and my eyes were bandaged instead. I made good use
of them in the moment I had them, however, and saw that I was in the
cabin of a small vessel, such as ply along this west coast to and from
Bristol. More I was not allowed to see.
Somehow my mind was curiously calm all the time. I believed I had
fallen into the hands of pirates, and might be carried away to Turkey
and sold as a slave; but I was determined not to lose my life or
liberty without an effort. I said my prayers, commending to Heaven
myself, my husband, and my friends at home, and prayed earnestly for
release and for grace in my time of need. I kept my ears open, and
judged that I was alone in the cabin; but I could now and then catch a
few words from the deck, and those words I was certain were English.
After much tossing, which lasted for many hours, we were again still,
and I heard the casting of anchor and the lowering of a boat. I was
once again muffled in the cloak, and being set on shore, found myself
on horseback behind somebody, to whom I was bound fast by a belt. We
rode fast and far—how long I could not tell, but at last our ride came
to an end. I was once more taken down, carried through some place which
echoed hollow, like a vault, and then downstairs; but before I reached
the bottom, I heard a whisper which told me where I was.
"Ah, 'twas ever what I looked for!" said a voice, which I knew right
well.
"Hush!" said another voice, with imperative sharpness.
Then being set down, my hands and eyes were unbound, and a glance
told me my whole situation. I was in the vault under St. Ethelburga's
shrine, in our old convent garden. Before me were the new mother
assistant, a priest whom I had never seen, and one in the dress of a
lay brother. I expected to see Sister Catherine, but she was not there,
though I am sure I heard her voice. Not a word was said till my bonds
were unloosed, and I was set down on a rude bench. Then the priest
addressed me:
"Rosamond Corbet! Miserable apostate and perjured nun that you are,
your spiritual superiors are still anxious to save you from the fate
you have prepared for yourself. Therefore they have brought you to this
holy place. You may yet repent—may yet return to the home from which
you have wandered, may resume your former place, and even rise to high
honor and trust therein."
Here I distinctly heard a contemptuous sniff, from the neighborhood of
the door, and I knew that Sister Catherine was at her old tricks. I was
about to speak, but was sternly silenced.
"Listen, while there is time, to the terms of mercy," said the priest.
"We are willing to receive you on these conditions. You shall write
with your own hands a letter to the Bishop, declaring that you were
coerced into your marriage, and have taken the first opportunity to
escape therefrom. You shall also say that you had been already secretly
professed, before you went home. There are abundance of people to
bear witness that you had all the privileges and duties of one of the
professed, being constantly present at 'obedience,' and having charges
of importance laid upon you, such as are proper only to the Sisters. It
will thus be easy to procure the annulling of your so-called marriage,
and after a time of seclusion and penance, which I promise you shall be
made as light as possible, you may again take your place as an honored
member of this holy family."
"And if I refuse?" said I.
For all answer he pointed to a niche, beside which were laid tools,
bricks and mortar.
"You dare not award me such a fate!" said I. "My kinsmen and my husband
would fearfully avenge me."
"Your kinsmen and your husband believe you to be carried off by
pirates," was the answer. "They will be seeking you on the seas and
among the Turks, while your bones are mouldering, under these walls."
I saw, as in a flash of lightning, all the horrid helplessness of my
position, but my courage did not give way.
"Answer me one thing," said I. "Does Mother Superior know that I am
here? Has she any share in this plot?"
"No," answered the priest, after a moment's hesitation. "She is not
here. She has been called to Exeter, to attend a Chapter of the order,
and will probably be placed at the head of a house in that place."
Again I heard Sister Catherine's sniff of contempt.
"And how much time do you give me to decide this matter?" I asked again.
"We might justly require you to decide on the instant," answered the
priest, "but in pity to your soul, and because we hope that solitude
and prayer may bring you to a better mind, we give you a week, in which
to consider. This Sister will bring you food and water, but presume not
to speak to her, or to make any noise, on pain of being removed to a
worse place. Contemplate that cell—your living grave—think of what a
life of usefulness and happiness may yet be yours—and we have good hope
that you will return to a better mind."
He seemed to wait for me to speak, but I only bowed my head, and they
presently withdrew, leaving me alone, to consider of the infamous
propositions they had made me, in presence of that awful token of the
fate that awaited me, should I refuse to comply. Then my strength gave
way all at once. I sank on the damp ground in a kind of swoon, which I
think passed into sleep.
I was waked at last by the sound of the chapel bell, calling the
Sisters to early prayers, and found myself not wholly in darkness.
There was a very small window, close to the ceiling of the deep vault,
which admitted a ray of light. When my eyes grew more accustomed to the
obscurity, I could see everything plainly. A heap of straw had been
placed in one corner, and by it stood a coarse loaf and a pitcher of
water. The rest of the vault was as I had last seen it, with some stone
coffins, the occupants of which had long since mouldered into dust,
some tattered remains of banners and winding-sheets, and one new leaden
coffin, placed there not long since. I remembered that the Vernon
family, or that branch of it to which our mother belonged, had a right
of burial here. But by one of those niches in the wall, of which I have
spoken, lay what had a grim significance, namely, a pile of bricks,
some mortar, and building instruments.
A cold shudder ran through me at the sight. I fell on my knees, and
with tears and sobs, besought to be saved from such a dreadful death,
and to be restored to my husband. I also prayed for strength to suffer
all that might come on me, without denying the truth; and I believe
my prayer has been answered, for I now feel quite calm and strong. I
have eaten and drank, and feel refreshed. I am determined not to yield,
but to escape if possible. No Corbet did ever yet fear death, nor yet
resign life without a struggle.
I have been making a close survey of my prison, and have found an
inestimable treasure, namely, the remains of two great funeral torches,
of black wax, overlooked and left, I suppose, at the time the leaden
coffin was placed here. They are large and thick enough to give light
for many hours. 'Tis a wonder the rats have not devoured them.
I have also cautiously tried the door of the vault, and find that it
yields a little under my hands. Luckily (though that is hardly the
word) I have both flint and steel in my pocket, in a Dutch tinder-box
Master Jasper gave me. I have also a knife and scissors. 'Tis well they
did not think to search me.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XLII.
_Tremador, All Saints' Day, Nov. 1._
WITH the other proofs of her care and kindness, my mother hath sent
me a store of pens and paper, and I am minded to beguile my somewhat
too abundant leisure, by setting down in order the account of my late
wonderful escape.
Magdalen and Grace take off my hands the whole care of our little
household, and I have hitherto been only too glad to rest, and let them
wait upon me; but my spirits and strength are recovering themselves
sooner and more easily than I could have thought possible, after such a
shock.
I left off my memoranda at the point where I had found the remnants
of funeral torches. All that day and night, as I had opportunity, I
carefully, and without noise, worked the door back and forward, finding
that it yielded more and more at every effort. I knew it led only to
the stairs, and that between me and freedom there still lay the heavy
upper door, with its bolts and bars, and the convent walls; but I had
something else in view. I remembered the ruined staircase leading
upward, and this, if it were possible to scale it, I meant to explore.
Toward night came two veiled figures, bringing me bread and water. I
heard the door unlock at the head of the stairs, and took pains to be
at the farther end of the vault, lying on my bed of straw.
"So!" whispered one of my visitors, while the other's back was turned.
"So this is something of a change from waiting on queens and being the
favorite of superiors. But I ever knew to what it would come."
I am almost ashamed to write it, but my fingers did tingle to pull
the veil from her face and cuff her ears soundly. But I made her no
answer, and did not even look up till they left me. I waited till the
clock told eleven, and then lighted my torch, taking care to shade it
well from the little window, and begun my labors once more at the door.
And here befel a wondrous piece of good luck; for as I fumbled at the
lock, I touched a knob which yielded under my grasp, a little trap fell
inward, and a space was opened through which I easily put my hand and
pushed back the bolt.
I remember having heard of the devotion of some of our Sisters in olden
times, who used to have themselves bolted into this underground chapel
for a day and a night of watching and prayer. Mayhap this trap was made
for their convenience, if they did at any time tire of their solitude.
Be that as it may, I joyfully opened the door and ascended the stairs.
The upper door was fast, and would not yield an inch to all my efforts;
so I turned my attention to the half ruined stairway.
The moon, nearly at full, shone through the window slits, and made
light enough for me to see where to place my feet; and with hard
climbing, and some peril, I reached the top. Lo, there a trap door with
rusted iron grates, which gave way without much trouble; and I found
myself on the top of the tower whereof I have spoken before.
Keeping my head well down, I crept to the battlements and looked
over. The tower joined and formed part of the outer wall, and was
covered by luxuriant ivy of a century's growth, for aught I know. As
I lay here, breathing with transport the fresh air of heaven, I saw
crouched below a dark figure, wrapped as it seemed in a cloak. They
have set a guard, was my first sickening thought; but presently the
person arose carefully and began to peer among the ivy leaves, and
to feel cautiously with the hand. Then the face was raised, and the
moon shining thereon, showed me features which I could never forget! I
ventured to lean forward, and called softly:
"Magdalen!"
"My Lady Rosamond, is that you?" was the answer, in a joyful whisper.
"I knew it—I felt you were here. But how have you got up there?"
"The question is, how I shall get down?" I said, with an odd
inclination to laugh.
"Climb down by the ivy!" was the instant answer. "The main stem is on
this side. 'Tis like a tree, and the wall is also rough. The distance
is not great, even if you fall. But wait. Let them get to the midnight
office, which is tolling even now."
I again lay down on the top of the tower, praying not so much in words
as in will, for the strength and coolness needful. In a moment I heard
the peal of the organ, and then Magdalen's voice, saying:
"Now—my Lady—now! Be cool and steady, there is no danger, thus far!"
Down I went, scrambling like a cat, and getting scratches and bruises
the marks of which still remain. A high wind was blowing, with now
and then a rush of rain, and our old mastiff in the garden was baying
the moon in his usual dolorous fashion. I have many a time wished him
hanged for those musical vigils of his, but now I was glad of anything
to make a little more noise. It seemed an age ere I reached the ground,
and I did get a fall at last, but I was up and in Magdalen's arms in an
instant.
"Now for our best speed of foot!" said she. "Give me two hours' leave,
and then let them do their worst. Can you walk?"
"Yes, run, if need be!" I answered.
"Then hasten after me!"
We soon gained the bank of a little brook, about a mile from the
convent walls, and here Magdalen, bidding me look well to my feet,
slipped into the bed of the stream. I followed her, and we made our way
down the channel, despite the rushing water and rolling stones, till we
reached the spot where the brook descended into a deep ravine.
"We may rest a moment, now!" said Magdalen. As she spoke, we clearly
heard borne on the wind the sound of the convent bell, ringing as if an
alarm.
"Can they have missed us already?" said I.
"Nay, they would hardly ring the bell if they had!" answered Magdalen.
As she spoke, a red gleam shot up, and was reflected on the tall spire
of the church, increasing momently in brightness.
"The torch! The torch!" I exclaimed.
"What torch?" asked Magdalen.
I told her how I had found and lighted the remains of the funeral
torch. I had left it propped up in the corner when I ascended the
stairs, and doubtless it had fallen over on the ground, where the
fragments of cere cloths and coffins, and the straw of my bed would be
as tinder to the flame. I had set the shrine on fire!
"So much the better!" said Magdalen, coolly. "They will have their
hands full enough for the next hour."
"Specially if the flame reaches the stores of fuel in the shed which
joins the shrine!" I said. "I fear the whole will go!"
And a great pang seized my heart as I thought of the home where I was
once so happy.
"Let it go," said Magdalen, bitterly. "It and its like have long enough
cumbered the ground. But we must not tarry here, lady. Follow me—look
well to your steps, and fear not."
We now descended into the ravine, through which the brook raved and
roared, apparently filling the whole space at the bottom.
"There is a path, though of the narrowest!" said Magdalen, as we
reached the bottom. "Tarry a little till I strike a light."
She lighted as she spoke a dark lantern, which she had carried, and
showed me indeed a very narrow path; hardly wide enough for one, under
the banks, which here became high and steep, towering in bare walls
above our heads.
"This is our own Coombe Ashton stream," said she, "and would lead us
homeward, but you must not venture hither till we find how the land
lies."
The day had begun to dawn as we reached a projecting rock, beyond which
there seemed to be no passing.
"Have faith still!" said Magdalen.
As she spoke, she stepped out on a stone in the bed of the stream, and
then disappeared round the projection. In another moment I heard her
voice:
"Now, my Lady, place your foot on that stone firmly, and give me your
hand. Take time. The stream is swollen, but you can do it."
I obeyed almost blindly, for I was beginning to feel exhausted. She
extended her hand—I caught it, and found myself drawn into a recess
or cavern in the rock, of some size, screened above and below by the
projecting cliffs.
"Thank God!" said Magdalen. "We may now rest for some hours. The
king's bloodhounds would not track us hither, and I don't believe
the wild beasts yonder will try. They will think doubtless that you
have perished in the flames. 'Tis not the first time this cavern has
sheltered the saints in time of persecution. It was mine own home for
many days, and there are others like it on these wilds, known only to a
few of the faithful."
As she spoke, she was heaping together some dried herbage in one
corner, and she now bade me lie down, and covered me with the same. She
then produced some dried flesh and a little flask of wine, and would
have me eat and drink, setting herself the example.
"And now tell me, how is my husband?" said I.
"Well in health, but sore distressed in mind," was the answer. "He
believes, as they all do, that you have been carried off by pirates."
"And how came you to think otherwise?" I asked again.
"For several reasons," she answered. "I had seen one that I knew for
a priest, despite his secular dress, peeping and prying about the
place, and I knew he had questioned the children as to your comings
and goings. I had thought to warn you, but was too late. Then I did
not believe a pirate would have taken such a roundabout course, or
would have known the country so well, and—I cannot well tell you, but
it was borne in on my mind that you were in mine old prison; and I was
determined at least to find out. I had made up my mind to gain entrance
as a pilgrim to the shrine above, and I had some precious relics
wherewith to pay my way," she added, with a bitter smile.
"That would have been putting your head into the lion's mouth with a
vengeance!" I said.
"Nay, they would not have known me. The Lady is away, and all who had
ever seen me were dead, or in no case to recognize me. You know I never
frequented the convent gates, and while I was a prisoner, no one saw me
but that kind old woman who waited on me, and the old priest. Beside
that, my stained face and gray hair would have been a good enough
disguise. Then when I saw how thick the ivy grew on the old tower, it
occurred to me that I might gain entrance in that way, and no thanks to
any of them; and I was considering the matter when you called me. But
how did you come to the top of the tower?"
I told her how it had chanced with me. "And what is to be done now?"
"That I cannot well say," she answered, "till we have consulted with
your husband. I know not if it will be safe for you to return at once
to your home?"
"O yes, let me go home!" I cried, as all at once the thought of
Richard's anguish and hopelessness rushed over me. "Let me go home to
my husband! He will know what to do."
And I tried to spring to my feet, but a strange dizziness seized me,
and I sank backward almost fainting.
"You see you must rest," said Magdalen, as she once more produced
her flask of wine, gave me to drink, and bathed my face with water.
"You are utterly worn out, and no wonder. Do but remain quiet for a
few hours, and then if you are able, we will go down to Coombe Ashton
together."
I could not but allow that she was right; and the more, as I really was
unable to stand without giddiness. Magdalen once more arranged my rough
bed, and I sank into a sound sleep, from which I waked to hear the
sound of voices; and raising myself on my elbow, I saw Magdalen in low
but earnest converse with an elderly man, who looked like a shepherd.
As I moved, she turned and hastened to my side.
"How is it with you, madam?"
"Why, well, I believe," I answered, "but who is this? Methinks I have
seen the face before?"
"That have you, madam," answered the old man. "Do you not know your
father's old herd, John Dean?"
I remembered him well as he spoke; an old man, and reported a very
honest one, but unsocial and grave, who lived in a little cottage on
the edge of the moorland. My mother and I had once taken refuge with
him during a thunderstorm, and I recollected how we had both been
struck with the manner and words of the man, as being much above what
we should have expected. Seeing that I had my wits together again, and
seemed rested, Magdalen explained her plans—namely, that I should walk
as far as John Dean's cottage, from whence I could easily send word
home.
"Or better still, let me bring the donkey to the hollow yonder, and
then the Lady can ride," said John. "'Tis a rough way for her walking."
This was at last agreed on, and John hastened away, by what path I
could not see.
"How came he here?" was my first question.
Magdalen hesitated. "If I tell you, Lady, I place his life and that of
others in your hands. Yet you are now one of us, having suffered for
the faith. You have heard of the Lollards?"
I told her I had, and of Wickliffe, who made an English Bible.
She told me "that ever since his day, there had been many of the
faithful, both in England and in Scotland, who preserved their English
Bibles and other books, and met in secret and wild places to read and
study the same, and to pray and praise together. In the towns," said
she, "we do know the faithful by certain private marks placed upon
their dwellings; and we meet in inner chambers and cellars. In the
country, we betake ourselves to dens and caves of the earth, like the
faithful of old, and this is one of our meeting-places."
As she spoke, she displaced a stone in the cavern's side, and showed me
a deep and dry recess, in which lay a great book, which she drew out
and opened. It was an English Bible, not printed as we have them now,
but written with the hand, and well preserved, though the leaves were
dark with age, and some of them ready to fall to pieces through much
handling.
"Those who could write among us made many copies of parts of these
books, which were passed from hand to hand," said she. "But now,
of late, we have had printed books from Germany—even the whole New
Testament, such as that which your friend gave me."
"And is John Dean then one of your number?" I asked her.
"That is he, and one of the best," she answered me. "There are others
scattered through this wild moorland country, and this cavern, where we
have found refuge, is one of our meeting-places. Here also do we keep a
supply of food and drink for any persecuted ones fleeing as a bird from
the fowler, and it was on this business that John Dean came hither this
morning."
I told her I trusted the day would come when every household in England
should have the pure word of God in hand.
"God grant it!" said she. "One thing I know, that the religious houses
and orders are growing less and less in favor with the people. Your
convent yonder is of the best, and gives much in charity, nor did I
ever hear of scandal within its walls as long as I have lived near it;
yet if it were put down to-morrow, as some of the small houses have
already been, I do not believe a hand would be raised in its defence."
[This proved true enough afterward. When the convent was put down, a
few years later, and my husband purchased the lands and what remained
of the buildings, he was fain to set a watch to keep the common people,
who in the days of its prosperity had lived on its alms, from stealing
the very leads and woodwork. Yet our house was one of the best—free
from gross scandal, and always spending a great part of its large
revenue in almsgiving. The truth is that the convents, by this very
almsgiving, did engender and encourage about them a kind of idleness
and careless living, which are the very parents of all ill—a basilisk
brood, ready to devour their mother.]
As we whiled away the time with such discourse, John Dean once more
made his appearance, and signified that all was ready. I found myself
very weak and stiff when I tried to move, but the hope of soon meeting
my husband gave me strength, and I was able to accomplish the scramble
up the bank to the place where the donkey was tethered. Right glad was
I to reach the good man's cottage, and to lay my wearied limbs on his
bed. Here I again fell into a deep sleep, or rather lethargy, from
which I was wakened (oh, blissful wakening!) by my husband's voice and
embrace. The good old herd had sallied forth once more, made his way to
my father's house as the nearest place, and came in upon the assembled
family with the news that the lost was found!
That evening found me safe in my father's house, which I had thought
never to see again. At first my Lord and my father were for keeping no
terms with my abductors. They should learn that in these days a lady
of family was not to be carried off in that high-handed way. But by
degrees calmer counsels prevailed. It was thought that for their own
sake my persecutors would keep quiet, specially as they would doubtless
believe me to have perished in the flames: but the accusation of
heresy was an ugly thing, and might be revived at any time. After due
consideration, it was thought best that Richard and myself should for
the present retire to this our estate of Tremador, where, surrounded by
our own dependants, and with no religious house near to spy upon us, we
might think ourselves safe till those at home should see how matters
would turn.
Hither then have we come, bringing with us for sole attendant Magdalen
Jewell, to whom I owe more than life. She is my own personal attendant,
while Grace rules the household, as usual. 'Tis a kind of exile, to be
sure, yet a most calm and happy one. I am recovering my health, which
was sorely shaken by my fatigue and exposure, and hope soon to go about
the house and to take some order about the dame school, which our good
Father Paul so much desires.
The story goes at home among our servants and neighbors, that I was
really taken by pirates and then abandoned on the waste, in some great
danger, from which I was rescued by John Dean and Magdalen, and we do
not contradict the tale. My mother writes me that the shrine of St.
Ethelburga was all consumed, save the bare walls, and also the sheds of
fuel and the offices. The main building also was much injured, but was
saved.
I know not how long we shall remain here, but I am quite content,
though we have no society but our own and Cousin Joslyn's. The estate
is large, and Richard can find enough to do, so that time shall not
hang heavy on his hands, and we have a constant resource in the study
of God's word. I can't but hope the time will come when we may return
home without danger, but meantime I am quite content.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XLIII.
_Stanton Court, May 12, 1590._
IT was but the other day that in looking over my papers and books (for
I am an old woman, and must needs be thinking of setting my house in
such order as I would leave it), I came upon this volume, containing
the record of my girlish days. I have had much pleasure in perusing it,
and thus going back to the days of my childhood and youth.
I have lived to see great changes. In this land, where I was once
so near to being a nun, there lingers hardly one religious house,
so-called. The Scripture, then a hid treasure, is now in reach of all,
taught even in dame schools, and read in all the churches, and we have
peace at home and abroad, sitting every man under his own vine and
fig-tree, with none to make us afraid.
The Spanish Armada, which did so threaten us last year, is dispersed
like a summer cloud, albeit the dispersion thereof did cost me a dear
nephew, and I may say my last daughter also, for I have little hope
that my dearest Mary will long survive her husband, my brother's second
son, who died of his wounds at Plymouth after the victory. But she
cannot, in course of nature, long precede her father and mother. My
husband is yet strong and hearty for one of his age, and I myself am as
vigorous as a woman of my years can expect to be.
My eldest granddaughter, an orphan, and some time a care from her
delicacy, is grown a fine woman, and betrothed to her cousin Corbet, my
great nephew and her second cousin. 'Twas not altogether with my will,
I confess. There have been too many mixtures of the blood already, yet
they have loved each other almost from childhood, as did Richard and
myself, and I cannot reasonably oppose the match. 'Tis for her, always
near and dear as a daughter, that I have taken on me to arrange these
memorials, and for her sake I add a few words.
My father and his second wife lived to see Richard Earl of Stanton, my
Lord having died unmarried not long after the death of his Lady and her
child, which chanced close together. My mother survived her husband for
many years, living most happily with her step-son and his wife Joyce,
whom she had brought up under her own eye.
On the suppression of the convents, which took place under my Lord
Cromwell, my husband had a grant from the king of the lands of our
priory here, not however without paying a round sum for the same.
He also bought the house and lands belonging to my old convent, and
bestowed them in endowing a boys' and a girls' school in our village,
and in rebuilding certain almshouses which have existed here from very
early times.
Most of our Sisters had homes to which they returned. Sister Catherine
was one of the first and loudest to be convinced of the error of her
ways, and related more scandals than I care to record concerning our
manner of life. But she was ever a hypocrite in grain, seeking naught
but her own advancement. Our Mother was at last left almost alone,
with nobody but Sister Placida, and one young maid, an orphan. Sister
Placida chose to go abroad, to a convent of our order in France, and we
supplied her the means to do so. Our Mother would fain have done the
same, but we persuaded her to try abiding with us for a year, and she
found herself so well content that she remained the rest of her life,
save for some few years, during the unhappy reign of Queen Mary, when
she betook herself to a convent in London, but returned to us again
when the house was broken up. She was not fond of talking about it, and
I don't think she found the return to her old life either as pleasant
or as edifying as she expected. She lived to a great age, and though
she never in words renounced her old faith, yet during her later years
she attended our family devotions, and spent much time in the study of
the Scriptures.
I never saw and one more amazed than she was when I told her the secret
of the fire which destroyed the shrine of St. Ethelburga, for, as I
believed at the time, she had no knowledge of the plot which had so
nearly destroyed me. She was absent, even as the priest told me, at a
chapter in Exeter, and they thought to complete their work and remove
all its traces before her return. Nay, I have always believed that but
for their signal and most unexpected discomfiture, she herself might
have been the next victim, for she had more than one bitter enemy
in the house, specially in Sister Catherine, who never forgave her
humiliation, and who afterward bruited some shameful scandals about
dear Mother and the rest of the family.
As I always suspected, 'twas Prudence who was the first cause of mine
arrest, she giving information to Father Barnaby concerning what she
called mine apostasy. She travelled the land afterwards as a pilgrim,
visiting various holy places, and trafficking in relics, till at last
Richard and I being on a journey, found her set in the stocks as a
vagrant, and in evil case enow. We procured her release, and took
her to a place of shelter, where she died, as I trust, penitent. She
confessed to her treachery, and told me of many instances, wherein she
had abused my dear mother's ear with false tales. And yet she persisted
to the last, and as I believe truly, that she acted as she did out of
love to my soul, and as she said, to give me a last chance.
As I have said, my husband bought the church lands about here, and
likewise the site of our old convent, which last he gave for the
endowment of our boys' and girls' schools in this village. *
No doubt there was much injustice and greed in the way the convents
and religious foundations were put down, and good and bad were often
involved in one common ruin. Yet I do believe the suppression of the
convents wrought good in the end. Such a life as theirs is utterly
without warrant in Scripture or reason. 'Tis clean against nature too,
and it could not be but that great disorders should grow out of it.
The very almsgiving, whereof so much was made, did foster a swarm of
beggars and idlers, and since, in the nature of things, but little
discretion could be used by those who never saw the folk at their own
homes, the most impudent and worthless fared the best. I believe our
house was better than the general run. There was no open scandal in my
time, at least, and all were kindly treated; yet I would sooner see a
daughter of mine in her coffin than doomed to such a living death.
* They are called Lady Rosamond's schools to this day. I would all
convent lands had been as well bestowed.—D. C.
I leave this book to my eldest daughter, Amy Rosamond Champernoun,
daughter of Sir David Champernoun, and my second daughter Rosamond,
and betrothed bride of my great nephew Henry Corbet, captain of her
Majesty's ship the Grayhound. I beseech her to transmit the same to her
eldest daughter, or failing that, to the female descendant of our line
whom she may judge most fit to have the same.
_ROSAMOND STANTON._
[Illustration]
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