"Methinks I should find it hard to be contented here!" I remarked. "I am sure I should not wish to sit down content with dirt and tatters and an ill-ordered family. I could find some days' pleasing employment in mending these hangings and cushions, and spinning new linen for bed and tables, and airing and ordering of chambers and the like. 'Till such things were done, I don't believe time would hang heavy on my hands!"
"You are a born housewife, Rosamond!" said my mother, smiling. "But you are right in this. I hope indeed you would never sit down content with any misorder or discomfort that could be remedied. That is but a poor kind of content. But, my child, we must strive to keep this poor lady in a good humor, for the sake of that unfortunate maiden. Your father tells me he is wholly inclined to take her in hand, and that Sir John is more than willing: but my Lady would fain bestow her and her goods on a convent, thinking thereby in some sort to benefit the soul of her unhappy son. I believe Sir John will have his own way, but it will be easier for all, if my Lady can be brought to consent too. I wonder where the child is?"
Mistress Warner here told my mother what she had overheard last night. My Lady was moved more than ordinary. Anything like oppression or injustice always rouses her anger.
"Nay then, is the woman base beyond hope," said she, "to visit her anger on the helpless child? Surely 'twas a kind providence brought us to the rescue of this innocent."
"My Lady, one of the women of the house told me last night that they all, save old Dorothy, believe that Mistress Joyce hath the evil eye," said Mistress Warner. "They say she overlooked the young master to his destruction. The lady herself tells them so. Do you think it can be true?"
"So they must bring their superstitions to bear against her, as well!" said my mother. "Nay, Warner, the evil eye is the eye that is full of hate, and covetousness, and uncharitableness. I see no such thing in this poor child's glances, do you?"
"No, madam; she looked harmless enough, for all I saw!" answered the bower-woman, who is a kind-hearted creature. "Even if she had fallen under the power of the devil, it would be a charity to rescue her, and methinks one who fears God has no need to fear any one less than He."
"Spoke like a Christian woman!" said my mother, and then the conversation was ended by the return of my Lady.
Well, we stayed that day and that night, and in the afternoon the matter was concluded; and Sir John, calling for Joyce, formally surrendered her to my father's keeping.
"And a good riddance, I'm sure!" quoth my Lady, with her hard, affected laugh. "I wish Sir Stephen joy of his bargain! I am only too glad to get rid of her, the ungrateful witch!"
"Hold your tongue, Sarah!" said Sir John. "See that the child's things are got together. Where are the gold chain and the string of pearls I gave into your keeping? Bring them hither, and give them over to Sir Stephen!"
"Lack-a-daisy, Sir John, how should I know?" answered my Lady, reddening and casting anything but a friendly glance at her husband. "I have not seen the trumpery for ages."
"You will find them, unless you want me to find them for you!" said the knight, in a peremptory voice. "You had them in your cabinet among your own gewgaws, I know, for I saw them. Go and fetch them here."
"Oh, very well, Sir John! So that is the way you treat your wife, that brought you all you had, and whose wealth you have wasted, and that before strangers! Alas, the day that ever I saw you!"
And with that she began to weep and cry aloud, and then to scream, till she fell into a fit of the mother.
Her husband, with an impatient "Here, women, see to your mistress!" strode out of the hall and returned presently with the jewels—a fine heavy gold chain and a necklace of fair large pearls.
"There, take her away out of sight!" said he, thrusting the things into my mother's hands. "Take her away, and keep her by you this night. Maybe I have not done right by her. I wanted to wed her to my son, and do well by her, but they would none of each other—I dare say 'twas not her fault, after all, poor wench! There, there—go, child, go!" For at the first kind word Joyce was at his feet and kissing his hand, with tears and sobs. "Go with thy new friends, be a dutiful maid, and take my blessing with thee, if the blessing of such a wretch be worth anything."
We saw no more of my Lady. In obedience to Sir John's hint, my mother kept Joyce at her side the rest of the day, and she shared my bed at night. She seemed unable to believe in her own deliverance, and started at every sound.
"She came to my room last night and beat me—oh, so cruelly!" the poor thing whispered to me, after we were in bed, "and that was not so bad as her words. She said I was a witch, and had bewitched her son to his death, and that she would have me burned! Your good father wont let them burn me, will he, Mistress Rosamond? I would not so much mind dying, but it would be dreadful to be burned alive!"
I soothed her and told her she would be safe under my father and mother's care, and if she would be a good and obedient maid, she might be as happy as the day was long.
"I will try to be good!" she said, simply. "But I am so ignorant! I have had no learning. I hardly know anything. Mistress Earle taught me to work, and spin, and say my prayers, but I have forgot them all now. Father Joe, our chaplain, used to teach me a prayer now and then, when he was sober, and he was kind to me; but he died from drinking strong ale. And then Walter died. Walter was always good—and I had no friend save poor old Dorothy."
I told her we would teach her, and bade her try to sleep, that she might be ready to travel in the morning; and so with much ado got her quiet.
Early in the morning we left the hall, seeing none of the family save Dorothy and the steward.
"Now I can breathe again!" said my father, drawing a long breath, when we were once out on the open moors. Joyce was on a pillion behind Cousin Joslyn, holding on very tight, and every now and then looking round with a scared face, as though expecting pursuit. She grew easier the farther we went, and when we were quite out of sight of the house, she too drew a long breath, and seemed as if she were more at ease.
We rode all day, across all but pathless wastes, seeing hardly a living thing save a few forlorn sheep tended by a wild, wolfish-looking dog and a boy not less wild than he. Toward the middle of the afternoon, however, we came to a hamlet, where the cottages were more decent than any we had seen since leaving home; some of them having little gardens, with parsnips and onions, and a few pot-herbs, and now and then some hardy flowers. All the people came to the door at sight of our cavalcade, and there were many reverences and smiles from men and women. They were a large, sturdy, wild-looking race, with black curly hair and black eyes.
"Now we are on your lands, my dear cousin," said Cousin Joslyn, turning to me. "This is the village of Tremador, and these be your tenants and cottagers."
I confess I was so silly at first as to feel a sense of prideful elation at the thought that I was in some sort mistress of these people and owner of the lands whereon I stood: but my second thought, I trust, was a better one, and I inwardly breathed a prayer that in so far as I had special duties toward these good folks, I might have grace to fulfil them.
"Truly a fine-looking people!" said my mother. "And the cottages are far better than I expected to see in these remote parts."
"That is mostly my late mistress' doing," remarked Master Penrose. "She could abide naught like sluttishness, or waste, or unthrift, and made constant war on them. Then we have an excellent parish priest—no drunken Sir John, like him down at the place we left this morning but a good and devout man, whose life is as pure as his prayers. Sir Stephen, there stands an old playmate of yours and mine—old Jasper, who helped us to take the falcons on the cliff."
My father must needs stop to see his ancient friend, and we soon had a crowd about us, all naturally eager to see their new lady and their old friend Master Joslyn. But they were no ways rude or prying, and when we rode away, followed us with many good wishes and welcomes, or so my cousin said, for they almost all speak the Cornish tongue, which, of course, is so much Greek to me.
Our road, now a fairly good one, led us away from the village, and skirted a long and high hill, near the top of which was perched the church, with a very high gray tower.
"What an odd place for the church!" says Harry.
"Yes, they say the devil had a hand in the building of many of our Cornish churches, and I don't wonder," answered Cousin Joslyn: "they are put in such inaccessible places. In the winter storms 'tis all but impossible for the village folk to reach this one, and my Lady had a scheme for erecting a chapel down in the hamlet yonder, but she never carried it out."
We went on for nearly another mile, rising ever higher, though by somewhat slow gradations, till we reached all at once the top of the ridge. Then what a view burst upon us! There was the sea standing up like a blue wall, so high were we above it, the land falling off to our right in a sheer precipice, at the foot of which were jagged rocks, among which the waves broke wildly, though it was a clear, calm day. In front of us opened a lovely valley—what we in our parts call a coombe—filled with woods, among which roared a brawling stream, which tumbled into the glen at the upper end in a fine cataract, of which we could catch a glimpse.
Nestling in the mouth of this glen, with a south-western exposure, lay the gray old house of Tremador, surrounded with great nut trees, and one huge pile of verdure, which Cousin Joslyn said was a Spanish chestnut. It had a homelike look to mine eyes from the first.
"The old house looks just the same," quoth my father: "I could expect to find my aunt seated in her parlor, with her cat and its kitlings in a basket by her side, just as I left them thirty years agone."
"You will find the cat and the kitlings, though not quite the same that you left," answered Cousin Joslyn. "But the house can never be the same to me again, now that my dear old friend and mistress is gone! But here we are. Welcome home to your own house, my fair Cousin Rosamond! Master Toby, you remember my Cousin Stephen; and this is his Lady, and this is Mistress Rosamond, your new lady and mistress."
Master Toby the steward, bent low to each of us, specially to my unworthy self, and then came Mistress Grace, and the men and the maids, all gathered in the hall to meet us. I don't know how I acquitted myself, but I know I never felt so young and insignificant in all my life.
Mistress Grace marshalled us all to our rooms. I was to have my aunt's, by her special direction, while my father and mother, as was fitting, had the room of state. Dame Grace says some king once slept there, but she can't tell who it was. She thinks 'twas either his Majesty Henry Sixth or King Alfred. I could not but smile, but Cousin Joslyn tells me, that though the unhappy Henry did really pass a night under this roof, there is a tradition that some sort of house stood here in Alfred's time, and that the royal fugitive was really here in some of his many wanderings. A part of the house is as old as the time of Edward the Confessor, and with its heavy, thick walls, low arches, and general massive roughness, makes me think of our shrine of St. Ethelburga, which I shall never see again.
[That was a mistake of mine. I saw all I desired and more of that famous shrine afterward.]
We have now been here four days, and I am beginning to feel at home. I have made friends with the old cat, who after considering me a while, went off and returned with a mouse, which mouse she deposited in my lap with an air of great satisfaction. Cousin Joslyn says it was a tender of service. I praised the old cat and took the mouse in my hand, and then delivered it over to the kits, at which their mother seemed quite satisfied. 'Twas an odd, but methought a mighty pretty trick of the poor brute, and I could see that Mistress Grace took it for a good omen.
I think Joyce is, however, the happiest of any one. As I said, we have arrayed her anew in a dress something suited to her quality, and with her tangled locks smoothed and covered, her face and hands washed, and her eyes growing less like a scared and beaten hound's, she is really a lovely child. She is sixteen years old, but is so small and slight she might easily pass for twelve, which my mother says is all the better, as she is so backward in her education. She has never learned to read, and has forgotten all she ever knew about her religion, save a Hail Mary and a fragment of her paternoster, which she says the chaplain at the hall taught her.
Finding my late aunt's spindle and distaff lying in my room, she begged that she might try to spin, saying that she had once learned of Mistress Earle, and after some trials, in which she showed great patience, she had the spindle dancing merrily on the floor, and drew out a very smooth even thread. She has asked me to teach her to read, and I am going to try. Untaught as she is in everything that it behooves a young lady to know, even in such every-day matters as eating and sitting properly, she is attentive to the slightest hint of my mother or Mistress Warner, who has taken the poor orphan into her kind heart at once, and is laying out great plans for teaching her white-seam, cut-work, and lace-making. Warner has the sense and wisdom to show great deference to Mistress Grace, as being so many years the elder, and they get on well together; and indeed Mistress Warner is a good Christian woman, as my mother says.
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July 30.
THIS morning, coming into the hall, I found Joyce quite in ecstasies over a pair of young choughs that Harry had got for her at the risk of his neck. Harry, who is usually very shy of strange young ladies, takes wonderfully to Joyce. She on her part takes to everybody, and is growing so full of spirits that mother now and then has to check her a little. She is very good in general, I must say, though she now and then shows her want of training in a little outburst of temper, and yesterday was so rude to Grace that mother ordered her to beg pardon, and on her refusal sent her to her room. Going thither some hour or two after, I found her drowned in tears, because she had offended my mother.
"You can easily make matters right," said I. "Go and beg my mother's pardon and Grace's also, and all will be well."
"If it were anything but that," said she. "But to beg pardon of a servant!"
I could hardly control my smiles, remembering the state wherein we had found her not two weeks agone, but I said gravely:
"As to that, Joyce, Grace's father was as good as your own, and if he had been a hind, 'twould make no odds. 'Tis obedience my mother requires, and she is right. Besides, you have no right to despise servants. Don't you know that our Lord Himself came not to be ministered to, but to minister, and He says Himself, 'if any man will be great among you, let him be your servant.' Let me read you something about that in a book that tells all about Him."
So I fetched my Testament and read to her about our Lord's washing the apostles' feet. She was impressed, I could see, but her pride rose.
"If it were anything else," she said. "I would fast all day, or lie on the floor, or—"
"Or do anything else that you wished to do, but not your plain duty," said I, interrupting, for I began to be vexed with her. "What does my mother care for your fastings, or lying on the floor? Or what boots all these tears, so long as you are proud, and wilful, and disobedient to the friend who has rescued you from misery—perhaps from such a dreadful death as my Lady Carey threatened you with? One simple, honest act of obedience is worth all the tears, and fastings, and penances in the world."
And with that I left her. I think my words had their effect, for an hour after she came weeping to my mother, and knelt by her very humbly, saying that she had begged Grace's pardon and received it. My mother, on that, gave the child her hand to kiss, and bade her bring her work and sit on the stool beside her. So all was sunshine once more, and I think the lesson has done Joyce good.
I have been making acquaintance with the village folk, specially the women and children. They are very cordial to me, and make much of me wherever I go, but I can understand very little unless I have Grace or Cousin Joslyn as interpreter. I am trying to learn something of their language. Some of the younger people, and most of our own servants speak English, after a sort, but they are all much delighted whenever I muster confidence enough to air my few Cornish phrases. They seem a good, kindly, simpleminded set, very fond of Cousin Joslyn, who is their physician and counsellor in all their trouble, looking up to the priest with religious awe, and having as few vices as one could reasonably expect.
They seem fond of the memory of their old Lady, though one of the younger women whom I visited without Grace, and who speaks English fairly, told me her Lady was "mortal tiresome and meddlesome about cleaning and rearing of babies." I hope I shall not be mortal tiresome, but if ever I come here to live, 'tis a wonder if I don't have my say about the rearing of these same babes.
I have already talked with Cousin Joslyn and Father Paul about a plan for a dame school, where at least the maidens might be taught the use of their fingers, in spinning, knitting, and mending of their clothes. Mistress Warner demurs at the knitting, which she says is work for ladies, like embroidery and cut-work, and not for cottage maids. But since it makes good warm hosen, I see not why they should not learn it as well as spinning.
Our priest, Father Paul, as he likes to be called, instead of Sir Paul, is one of an hundred. I never saw a better, purer face than his, though 'tis wonderful thin and worn, and by times full of care. He preaches every Sunday to the people, and repeats whole chapters of the Gospels and Epistles. Last Sunday 'twas that same which the Bishop gave us in the convent, upon charity, though I did not know then whence it came. ('Tis strange how far away seem those old convent days. I can hardly think I am the same maid who was content to spend hours over a cut-work cope, and never had a thought beyond what my superiors told me, or a doubt but that all our endless litanies to the Saints and our Lady were true prayers. But this is by the way.) I am sure Father Paul reads the Scriptures a great deal, for he is always repeating them to the people, as I said, and makes the most clear and practical applications of them to the common matters of every-day life.
Then he visits a great deal from house to house, specially where there is sickness or any trouble and he has composed many quarrels, to which these Cornish folk are a good deal given. He has made acquaintance with many of the wild moormen, and even persuaded some of them to come to the church now and then, to be wedded, and to have their babes christened.
I saw one of these weddings one day, and gave the bride a kerchief, which I had put in my pocket for some one in the village. The whole party were greatly pleased, and this morning the old mother of the bride came and brought me a great basket of whortleberries, the finest I ever saw. She would have no pay, so I gave her a pair of scissors and some needles, and Mistress Grace added what the poor thing seemed to value more than anything, a great loaf of brown wheaten bread. She gave us to understand that her child (not the bride, but another) was very ill, and could eat little, but would like the bread. Thereupon Grace, always compassionate, added a pot of honey, and a bottle of some cordial medicine to her gift, and the poor woman went away very happy.
'Tis strange with what a mixture of awe and contempt the servants and villagers regard these wild folk, who do indeed seem of another race than themselves. Cousin Joslyn thinks the moor folk are remnants of the first race who inhabited the country. I wish something might be done for them. But indeed I might say the same for the whole land, not only of Cornwall, but of our own Devon, and of all England.
Under what a worse than Egyptian darkness it lies! But one can see the glimmering of dawn, and here and there a mountain top touched by the sun; and I cannot help hoping that better days are at hand. My mother, however, is not sanguine—that is, she believes the truth will prevail, but only after long waiting, and many hard, and it may be bloody struggles. She has known the King from childhood, and she says she believes if he puts down the power of the Pope in this country 'twill be only to set himself in his place. But these are too high and dangerous matters for me.
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Aug. 3.
SAD news! A courier came from home last night with the mournful tidings that my Lord's little son seems to be failing fast, and begging us to hurry home as quickly as possible, that they may have the benefit of my mother's counsel. Alas, poor little boy! I can see that my mother has little hope of finding him alive, from the account which Master Ellenwood writes of his state. Jasper Ellenwood, who hath been bred a physician in the best Dutch and Paris schools, is at the Court night and day, but he gives little encouragement.
We leave to-morrow. Joyce is quite heart-broken at leaving Mistress Grace, to whom, since their quarrel, she hath greatly attached herself, and bestows some of her tears also upon a beautiful young Spanish cat * which Cousin Joslyn hath bestowed on her. Father says she may take it home if she can get one of the men to carry it. The choughs, her other pets, she leaves with Cousin Joslyn to be taught to speak.
* What we now call a tortoise-shell—then a mighty rarity.—D. C.
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Aug. 5.
HERE we are at home again, safe and sound, having made the journey in less than three days. The poor babe is alive, and that is all. My Lady is like a ghost so pale, wasted and woe-begone; but keeps up for the sake of her husband and child. I see my mother has great fears for her.
Aug. 12.
My mother being so much at the great house, Joyce naturally falls to me. She has been put to sleep in the little green room which opens into mine, and sits with me every morning doing her task in the hornbook and in sewing and spinning. She takes to the use of her fingers readily enough, but is sadly dull at her book. Master Ellenwood, whom I consulted, advised me to give her pen and ink and let her imitate the letters, and I think we shall get on better. She is so good and tries so hard, that I cannot for very shame get out of patience with her. In the afternoon we take long walks and rides with Master Ellenwood or Harry for escort, or go to see the sick folk in the village.
The babe still lingers, but we have no hope of his life. My Lord is like one distracted, but more I think for the mother than the child. He depends for everything on Richard, and can hardly bear to have him out of sight; so we see little of Dick. He will be the next heir if this poor boy dies, unless there are others. The prior said as much to him the other day, adding "that 'twas an ill wind," etc., (a fine speech for a Churchman). My father said Richard's brow grew black, but he answered courteously:
"If my prayers could keep the child alive, my reverend Father, he would live to be as old as Abraham."
Whereat my father said the prior had the grace to look ashamed. Poor old man, he himself cares for naught but money, and I suppose he can't understand how any one can be really disinterested.
I must not forget to say that the Spanish kitling made the journey in the pocket of Harry's horseman's coat, sorely discomposed at times by the shaking, and wailing pitifully, but on the whole behaving very well.
We stopped for one night we were on the road at the same yeoman's house as before, and had the same hearty welcome. We heard that they found the old gaffer dead in his bed the next day but one after our visit. The dame said the words he had repeated to us were constantly on his lips the last day of his life, and when she put him to bed, he asked her "when that young lady would come again?" and left his blessing for me. And after she left him, she heard him murmuring over and over—"everlasting life—everlasting life." Truly a happy end.
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Aug. 18.
THE dear babe is gone—he died on the morning of the thirteenth, and is buried in the churchyard of the Priory Church, where both families have a right. My Lady tries to keep up, but grows more feeble every day. My Lord is with her every moment, Richard taking all cares off his hands.
"I wolde not brethren have you ignoraunt as concernynge them which are fallen aslepe, that ye sorowe not as wother do which have no hope. For yf we beleve that Jesus died, and rose agapne: even so them also which slepe by Jesus, will God brynge agapne with him . . . Therfore comfort youre selves one another with these wordes."Tessalonyans chap iv
[These words gave me great comfort in my sorrow, so I have copied them here.]
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Aug. 20.
THIS morning my father and mother called me to a conference. I knew my Lord had been with them, and went thinking of nothing more important then perhaps that my Lady desired me to stay with her; but saw at once by their faces that there was more in the matter than that. My mother bade me to a seat beside her, and then my father said:
"Rosamond, here has been my Lord proposing—asking—" then turning to my mother: "Madam, do you be spokesman—I am a fool, and that is the whole on't!"
"My Lord has been proposing a match for you, daughter, and your father wishes to know your mind before giving him an answer. Richard Stanton wishes to make you his wife, and my Lord also desires the match."
"You see, Dick is the next in succession, and my Lady is very frail," added my father, "so 'tis proper and right that Dick should marry. It seems, however, that Master Dick will have nobody but his country cousin, after all the fair ladies he has seen at court and abroad, and my Lord thinks he could not do better."
I was covered with confusion, and could hardly look up.
"Well, what say you, chick?" asked my father. "Wilt wed Dick Stanton, and live here at home? You might doubtless make a richer and greater match, for even if my Lady should not recover, my Lord is of an age to marry again, and with my aunt's estate for a portion, you will not go begging. But we all know and like Dick, who is good and true as the day, and not so badly portioned either for a younger son; besides that, my Lord will give him the estate of Coombe Ashton, if he weds to his liking. So what say you, daughter, for all rests with you? I will wed no child of mine against her will."
I managed to murmur that I had no wish to oppose the will of my parents and my kinsman; whereat my mother bent down and kissed my brow, saying with a little gentle mischief:
"See you, Sir Stephen, what a dutiful child we have here!"
"Aye, well broke, as old Job's horse, which would always go well on the road homeward," said my father, smiling. "But what think you my Lady Abbess will say, my Rose?"
"I fear she will be grieved," I answered; "but I could not have returned to her, at any rate. Sister Catherine will say it is just what she always expected!"
"I dare say she would fly at the chance herself, the old cat!" said my father. "Well, Rosamond, I am heartily glad your choice jumps so well with ours in this matter, for though I would have preferred Dick above many a richer and greater suitor, I would never wed a child of mine against her will. I saw enough of that in mine own mother's case, who lived and died a broken-hearted woman; aye, and that though my father would have coined his very heart's blood to save her. She was a model of wifely duty and reverence too, poor Lady, but the one thing my father longed for, that she could never give. Well, well! God bless thee, child, with all my heart: thou bast ever been a dutiful daughter to me and to her that is gone. Well, I must go see my Lord and Dick, who is pacing the maze like a caged lion. There will be need of a dispensation, and I know not what, beside the settlements for our heiress here. What think you, chick? Does Dick seek you for the sake of Aunt Rosamond's acres and woods?"
"Not he!" answered my mother for me. "One must have been an owl indeed not to see how matters were long before Rosamond had any title to acres or woods. I had a shrewd guess at it before ever I saw Rosamond herself, when our young squire used to linger beside me in London to talk of his cousin, when others were dancing. I thought then it would be a shame for the cloister to part two true lovers."
I could not but rejoice in my heart when I heard this, that Richard had preferred talking of me, even when his love must have been well-nigh hopeless, to dancing with those court ladies of whom Mistress Anne told me. I never did believe a word she said, the treacherous viper!
All this chanced only this very morning, and already it seems ages agone. Dick and I have had a long talk together down at the spring, where we used to have so many. How that place used to haunt my dreams in the convent! Father Fabian said 'twas a temptation of the devil, and I never would let my mind dwell on it in the day-time; but I could not hinder its coming back at night.
As we sat on our old moss-grown seat by the clear well, we saw a chaffinch—perhaps the very one Dick showed me on the eve of Alice's marriage—flying in and out among the bushes with its young brood. I took it for a good omen.
As we sat there, gazing down into the spring, a shadow fell on us, and looking up, there was Patience, my mother's bower-woman.
"So it has come to this, even as I said!" said she, with no form of greeting.
"Not quite!" I answered. "You said my mother would wed me with a kinsman of her own."
"So it has come to this!" she repeated again, paying no heed to my words. "You, Mistress Rosamond, who were consecrated before you were born, and wore the veil in your very cradle—you are returned to the world, even as your mother did before you!" Then changing her tone, and falling on her knees at my feet: "Oh, Mistress Rosamond, don't! For love of your own soul, don't go to throw yourself away thus—don't bring down wrath and shame on your head, and doom your mother's soul to endless woe! I know you don't love me, and maybe you have small cause; but I loved your mother, and I nursed you when a fair babe. Oh, Mistress Rosamond, think before it is too late!"
The woman was fairly convulsed with sobs.
"Nay, Prue, why should I bring woe on my head by obeying my father?" said I. "I never was professed, so I break no vows, and why cannot I serve God as well in the married state, which was that of Saint Peter himself, as in a convent? St Peter was married, and so was St. James, and what was good enough for them should be for me, surely."
"And St. Paul says, marriage is honorable in all—remember that, Prudence!" says Dick. "And when our Lord was on earth, he went to a wedding and turned the water into wine for the poor folks."
"I don't believe it!" says Prue.
"Then you don't believe the Gospels, and that is worse than being married," answered Dick, gayly; and with more of his old mischief than I have seen in him for a long time. "Come, Prue, be a reasonable woman, and here's a good Harry gold piece to buy you a new gown for the wedding."
"I shall never see that wedding!" said she, never noticing the money he held out to her. "I have warned you and entreated you, and all in vain. Your blood be on your own heads, if you persevere! Only remember, when the stroke comes, that I warned you!"
And with that she turned away and left us.
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Aug. 30—the day after.
THE formalities are all arranged, and to-morrow I shall be a wedded wife. The matter has been hurried for Harry's sake, because he must sail so soon, and also because my Lord will take my Lady to her own old home, which she yearns to see again. Perhaps they may also go abroad in search of a milder climate, though the disturbed state of affairs makes that doubtful.
We are to keep house at the Court till they return, and then go to our own house at Coombe Ashton. I would like to live awhile at least at Tremador, for my heart is drawn to my people there, and perhaps we shall do so. I am glad my mother has Joyce, who gains on our hearts every day. She is very loving and easily swayed, though, as was to be expected, she has many faults, the worst of which, in my mother's eyes and mine, is a want of truth. If she commits any fault or meets any mishap, she will lie to hide it.
My mother says it is just what she should expect in any one so severely handled as Joyce has been, and she believes it may be overcome by kindness and wise treatment: and she did yesterday come to my mother, bringing a drinking glass she had broken. Nobody saw her do it, and the mishap might have been laid on that universal scape-goat, the cat; so we think it a hopeful sign.
She was overwhelmed with grief when she found I was going away as well as Harry, and I could hardly pacify her by promises of visits and what not. She would fain have bestowed on me her greatest treasure, the Spanish cat, bringing it in her arms with her eyes running over with tears: but I showed her that 'twould be unkind to Cousin Joslyn to part with his present, and that Puss would be unhappy away from her, and proposed instead, that as she can really spin wonderful well, she should make me some hanks of fine woollen thread for my knitting; whereat she was comforted. She is a dear maid, all the more engaging from her odd blending of the young child and the woman.
There are only two things to make me at all uncomfortable. One is that I have had a most sad and reproachful letter from dear Mother Superior. She regards my marriage as nothing less than sacrilege, and implores me to cast off my betrothed husband and return to the arms of my Heavenly Spouse who will receive me even now; and if I am faithful in penance and prayer, may make me all the brighter saint for this sacrifice.
But that is not the worst of it. She says she has heard that both my step-dame and Lady Stanton are infected with the new doctrine. She says that she has it from a sure hand that my mother was in London a constant associate of my Lady Denny and other well-known heretics, and was believed to have sent relief both in money and food to heretics under sentence in the common prisons. She lays all my apostasy, as she calls it, to the account of my Lady Corbet, and implores me to fly from the tyranny and ill-guidance of my cruel step-dame to the arms of my true Mother.
I must own that I shed some tears over this letter, remembering ancient kindness, and grieving over the grief of the dear Mother who was ever kind to me, even when I was under a cloud concerning the affair of Amice Crocker; but it has not shaken my determination one whit. I believe (besides what I owe to my espoused husband), I am in the plain path of duty in obeying my natural born father. Seeing the truth as I do now, returning to the convent would be one of two things—either going into a regular course of hypocrisy and denying of the truth in every word and action, or it would be going straight to disgrace, imprisonment, and perhaps a dreadful death! The very foundations of mine ancient life were shaken by Amice Crocker's death and the circumstances attendant thereon, and they have been utterly ruined and pulled down by what I have since heard and read for myself in Holy Scripture. I cannot build them again if I would, and I would not if I could. As to my mother's promise concerning me, 'twas made in ignorance, and I do not believe she would now desire me to fulfil it. I could not do it, even if I were not promised to Richard. I can honestly say that I have tried to decide rightly, and I believe I have done so. My mind is at ease, so far as that is concerned.
The other thing which troubles me is that Harry must leave us the very day after the wedding. I think his desire for the voyage hath suffered some diminution of late, specially since Joyce has come to live with us: but he hath too much of my father in him to give up lightly any purpose he hath gravely formed. He hath grown much more manly and serious of late. His whole collection of pets—dogs, horses, the old donkey, the peacock, and all, he hath consigned to Joyce—all save the old bloodhound, which will follow nobody but himself and my mother.
My father hath given me a beautiful Spanish genet, and another horse for my own riding, with all new furniture for the same. I have half my own mother's clothes and jewels, and great store of new garments and ornaments from my parents and my Lady, and a cupboard of plate, far too fine for a simple squire's dame, from my Lord.
Captain Hawkins came yesterday and brought me a piece of beautiful silk stuff from the Levant, and two fine carpets, soft almost as velvet, and of the richest colors. He says in the East, and even in Venice, they use these beautiful carpets on their floors, which seems a mighty waste.
Master Jasper Ellenwood gave me a Venice gold chain, and a drinking glass in a case, with other conveniences. He is a fine, grave gentleman, and I have learned much from him about ways of living abroad, specially in Holland, which country must be a kind of paradise of good housekeepers. It is even true that they use no rushes on their floors, which are scoured two or three times a week, and many even of the common houses have glass windows. By this neatness they escape many plagues in the shape of vermin, specially fleas; but I should think such constant washing and dampness would breed rheums and fevers.
I must not forget another of his presents, a beautiful cup made of a kind of fine pottery ware, only much harder and lighter than any of our pottery, and ornamented with painting and gilding which will not wash off, but are in the very substance of the ware. He says these dishes are brought from Cathay, where even the common people use them for eating, and also for drinking a kind of broth of certain dried herbs, which makes a great part of their living. Poor diet, methinks, which would hardly content Englishmen, though Master Jasper says 'tis a healthful and refreshing drink.
It is really a wonderful thing to see a man who has been in Cathay and the Indies. Richard has asked him to visit us by-and-by, and he has promised. His advice has been of great use to my Lady, and though he could not save the poor babe, his constant care of the child has endeared him greatly to the family, so that my Lord would fain have him take up his abode with them.
There is a rumor afloat, which nobody can trace, that a pirate vessel hath been seen on the coast hereabouts, but my father and Captain Hawkins do not think it true. Still there are many lurking-places on these wild shores, where such a vessel might hide, and it behooves us all to be careful. Master Ellenwood says he has seen English boys and girls sold as slaves in the Bagnios of Constantinople and Egypt.
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Coombe Ashton, Sept. 10.
HERE am I, Rosamond Corbet no more, but Rosamond Stanton, a sober matron of a week's standing. After all we changed our plans at the last, and came on here the day but one after the wedding, on account of some business which had to be attended to. Alice was quite furious at my being carried off so soon, but none of us at Stanton-Corbet were in any mood for festivity, and I was by no means sorry to escape the usual round of wedding banquets and jests, and have a little time to think. My father and mother and Joyce came over with us, and left us only this morning.
We are all sad at Harry's going away, and Joyce is broken-hearted. I expected from her a tempest of grief, and then all over; but it goes much deeper than that. I do believe those two childish hearts have waked up to real love. I had a long talk with Joyce yesterday, telling her how she must strive to be docile and cheerful, so as to take my place as a daughter at home, and make them all happy.
"I will do my best," said she, "but I can never make your place good, Rosamond."
"Nobody can ever exactly fill another's place perhaps," said I; "but we can all do our best to adorn our own. You have a great deal to learn, 'tis true, but your capacity is good, and in my mother and Master Ellenwood you have the kindest of teachers. Now, what are you smiling at?"
"Because you talk so old!" answered the saucy popinjay. "One would think Mistress Stanton was twenty years older than our Rosamond!"
"Whereas she is really many years younger," I answered, glad to see her laugh, though at my own expense. She sobered down, however, and begged my pardon for her sauciness, adding that she meant to be very good, and learn everything that my mother would teach her.
"And I mean to be happy, too!" she added, very resolutely, though with some bright drops standing in her eyes. "I am so thankful to Sir Stephen, that it does not seem as if I could ever do enough for him. Madam says I must thank God too, and I do. When I think how I lived with my Lady Carey, it seems as if I had been in a bad dream from which you came and waked me. It was a blessed wakening for me."
And for us too, I told her, and indeed I think it will prove so—she shows herself so well conditioned, and it will be a real blessing to Harry to have a wife brought up under our mother's eye. But that is looking very far forward.
There is no village here, only a little fishing hamlet, at the mouth of the Coombe; but to my surprise I find they have really a dame school, taught by a woman who came hither last year. There is no church nearer than Clovelly, which is three miles away, and Stanton, which is just as far in the other direction.