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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.]
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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.
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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.
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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.
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