image045
image046
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!
image047
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.
image048
image049
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?
image050
image051
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.
image052
image053
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.
image054
image055
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!"