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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.
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.
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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.
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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!
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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!