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THE LIGHTNING STRIKES AGAIN.
THE old man was right. With the spring came rumors of renewed attacks upon the religious foundations all over the country. We heard before of the execution of the Bishop of Rochester, who laid down his gray head upon the block because he would not acknowledge the king to be pope—for that is what it amounted to. (Nothing can be more absurd than to call Henry the Eighth a Protestant.) Our own prioress might be said to have died in the same cause.
Nobody had appeared to administer the oath to our present head, however, and we had begun to think that we were to be let alone. I do not believe that the reverend mother had any such hopes. Our foundation was a wealthy one, and our church was well-known to be unusually rich in gold and silver. There was abundance of shrines, reliquaries and boxes, as valuable for their splendid workmanship as for the precious metals of which they were made, and the jewels with which they were incrusted. Then there were missals set with precious stones, beautiful hangings and vestments, and vessels, and candlesticks, and the like. These articles were all displayed upon feast days, and when our great altar was lighted up at the festival of our Patroness, it was a spectacle almost too bright for mortal eyes.
Such a prey was not likely very long to escape the teeth and claws of my Lord Cromwell, and his master. Bishop Gardiner himself was very forward in promoting the king's designs upon the religious houses (for as devout as he afterward professed himself). He was our visitor, as I have said, and when the very shepherd is in league with the wolves, the silly sheep have little chance of escape.
It was on a beautiful morning in May that destruction overtook us. We had just come out of chapel for our recreation, when we heard a thundering knocking at the great gate, and the portress going to open it, found a couple of gentlemen, and our old friend, or enemy, the bishop's chaplain, with letters from my Lord Cromwell and Bishop Gardiner for the prioress and community.
We were all in the garden, huddled together and watching afar off, when the mother assistant called us to come into the ante-room of the choir, where we were wont to put on the long mantles which we wore in church. We were bid to array ourselves as quickly as possible and get ourselves into the usual order of our procession. This being done, and preceded by the cross-bearers, as was the way in our grand processionals, the singers passed into the choir, singing as usual, I being at the organ, which I was accustomed to play for all church services. The youngest sisters came first and the prioress last.
Father Austin stood near the altar, his head bowed down with grief, yet commanding himself like a man. The bishop's chaplain and the two other visitors stood beside him, and the latter were passing their remarks freely enough upon all they saw, and even on the figures and faces of the sisters. Standing upon the chancel steps they could look directly into the choir, which no one in the body of the church could see at all. I must do our ladies the justice to say that they seemed, one and all, totally unconscious of the presence of these strange men. Even Sister Perpetua was awed into decent behavior.
When all were in their places, the chaplain announced his errand. He had come, by the authority of the king and his minister, my Lord Cromwell, to demand the surrender of the charter of that house to his majesty, with all treasures of every sort, and all superstitious relics, whereof my lord was well informed we possessed a great number. All members of the family were to be at liberty to depart whither they would, being furnished, by the king's liberality, with a suit of secular clothing. As to the house and its contents, they were to be at the absolute disposition of the king, and no one was to presume, on pain of felony, to secrete, carry off, or make away with any article whatever, though by the king's special grace and favor toward the bishop, the sisters might take any books or other property of their own, not above the value of three marks. * The visitors had brought down articles of surrender for the prioress to sign, and two of the commissioners would remain to take an inventory of our goods, and see such as were of value packed for removal.
* See many such surrenders in the Camden Miscellany and in Fuller's Church History.
I do not suppose that any one now can estimate the shock of this declaration. I do think, if the earth had quaked and shaken down church and convent in one common ruin, it would not have amazed and horrified us as much. I am sure when the spire was struck by lightning—whereby two of our bells were melted—we were not nearly as astounded. *
I, hidden away in the organ loft, could watch the faces of the sisters. One or two burst into tears, but the greater part were too much stunned to move. The prioress was very pale, but she spoke in her usual even, somewhat deep voice.
* Fuller notes, as remarkable, the number of abbeys and priories which were, at one time or another, burned by lightning. He gives a list of thirteen thus destroyed.
"These are heavy tidings you bring us, gentlemen. How have we been so unfortunate as to fall under his Grace's displeasure?"
The gentlemen looked at each other, and one of them began reciting a long list of the sins and shortcomings of the religious houses, whereby his majesty was moved, by his zeal for true religion, to suppress all houses below a certain value—two hundred pounds a year—I believe. The prioress heard him to the end, and answered in the same calm tone.
"For the misorders and scandals whereof you speak, I can answer for no house but my own. Sure I am, that for the forty years I have lived in these hallowed walls, no such thing has happened here, and as our revenues are nearer to three hundred a year than two, I see not how his Grace's royal will applies to us."
"We will be the judges of that," answered the commissioner, arrogantly. "As to the matter of scandals, we have been better informed by some of your own number. There have been scandals enow, especially of late. Will you dare tell me, woman, that no young men have been entertained in this house—that there has been no junketing and carousing in the very parlor of the prioress herself. I tell you we have sure information, and will you dare to deny it?"
The prioress paused for a little, and let her eyes travel from face to face round the circle. When she came to Sister Perpetua and Sister Regina, she looked them in the face for a full minute. There was no need to inquire further who was the false witness. Their visages spoke for them. (It was much the same with all the religious houses. There was always some traitor in the camp, ready, whether for greed of gain or to curry favor, or because of weariness of their vows, to inform against their brethren.) The lady was about to speak again, when the other commissioner interrupted her. He was the elder of the two, and altogether more decent in his demeanor.
"Under your favor, honored lady, I would counsel you to take time for advisement, and to read the letter sent you by your reverend visitor, which his chaplain will hand you. After that, we will hear your decision."
"It is well spoken, sir," answered the prioress. "Meantime, please you, gentlemen, to withdraw to the house of Father Austin, our priest and confessor, where I will give order for your entertainment."
"Nay, reverend mother, methinks the common fare of your refectory will suit us well enough," returned the younger man. "If all tales be true, we are not the first who have had such entertainment, and methinks we were safer to make you our taster."
The reverend mother made no reply to his impudence, but giving a sign to the sisters, they withdrew as they had entered. When all had passed but herself and the mother assistant, she advanced to the wide grating which separated the choir from the church, and held out her hand, covered with a fold of her robe, for the bishop's letter. The elder man gave it her with a reverence for which I liked him all the better, and said, in a low tone, as the other turned away:
"Be advised, madam. Resistance can do no good, and will bring only heavier calamity on yourself and your flock. Be advised, and follow your visitor's counsel."
"I thank you, sir, for your words, which I see are kindly meant," said the prioress; "but I must have little time to consider the matter. How long can you give me?"
He called back his brother commissioner, and after consultation, in which he seemed to press some point which the other yielded unwillingly, he turned and said: "Till to-morrow at this hour, madam."
"I thank you," said the lady once more—and passed out of the door. I closed my instrument, not without a sob, as I thought I might never touch it again, and followed the reverend mother.
It was now the time for dinner, but the bell had not been rung. The sisters were standing talking together in excited groups, and many an angry and contemptuous glance was cast at the two traitors. The prioress at once restored order, and bade the portress ring the bell for dinner.
"Let us have no misorder—no relaxation of discipline on what may perhaps be our last day in this blessed inclosure," said she. "Slandered we have been and may be, but let us keep our own consciences clear and unstained. That comfort no one can take from us."
It was a feast day, and our cheer was better than common, but nobody felt like eating. The ceremonies of the table went on as usual, however, and the reader's voice never faltered. After dinner came recreation, and then the tongues were let loose again.
"Well, for my part, I care not what becomes of me after this," said Sister Sacristine. "I have lived too long."
"Do not say that, sister," returned Mother Bridget, gently. "We cannot say what gracious purpose may yet be in store for us."
"Don't talk of gracious purposes!" said the Sacristine, angrily. "Here have I been serving the blessed Magdalene all these years, wearing my fingers to the bone cleaning of her shrine with wash leather and hartshorn salts and what not, and this is what I get by it. And to see the holy relics carried off and dispersed after all my care."
The poor old lady burst into tears and wept bitterly, and more than one joined her.
As for me, I stole away to a favorite place of retirement—a little shrine or oratory in the orchard, half hidden by trees and thick, clustering ivy. Here I was used to keep certain books of my own—a Latin Imitation and Psalter, and a prayer book which I had brought from my old home at Peckham Hall. I hoped for a little solitude to collect my thoughts, but I was disappointed.
As I drew near, I heard men's voices in the building, and recognized them for those of the old Scotch gardener and Mr. Lethbridge, the younger commissioner.
"So this is the jaw-bone of St. Lawrence, is it?" said the latter; and peeping through a crack, I saw with horror that he was tossing it up and down in his hand. "It looks more like a pig's jaw to me."
"Maybe," answered Adam. "Ye'll be a better judge of that article than me. It was aye called the jaw of St. Lawrence in my time."
"What of it—suppose it was?" said the other, arrogantly. "What good could it do any one? For my part, I care no more for St. Lawrence's jaw than for Mahomet's."
"I would na speak scornfully of the jaw of Mahomet gin I were talking to a Turk," retorted Adam. "I might argue wi' him, gin I thought it would be to edification, but I would na scorn at him. I would think it ill manners."
For all answer, Mr. Lethbridge tossed the relic from him, and ordered the gardener to show him the rest of the grounds. When they were gone, I entered the chapel, and having gathered my books together, I picked up the jaw of St. Lawrence, which certainly had an odd shape for a man's, wiped the dust from it, and laid it back in its place. Then, a sudden thought striking me, I dug a hole in the earth, at the foot of the great honeysuckle, and buried it; and there it may be now, for aught I know.
Our services went on as usual during the day—the last day, perhaps, they would ever be performed in those walls which had heard prayers and chants for so many hundred years. It was touching to see how punctiliously almost all the sisters performed every duty, even the smallest.
There were exceptions, however. As I said, we had two or three who had no vocation whatever, and they tried to take liberties, and were not ashamed to exchange mocking glances and whispers, even in the hour of meditation. Nobody took any notice of them, however, except to draw away when they came near as if they had the pestilence. I remember Sister Regina took hold of the sleeve of Sister Anne's habit to draw her attention to something, she being a little deaf, whereupon the old lady, having her scissors in her hand, deliberately cut out the place Regina had touched and trampled it under her feet. It was not a very Christian act, perhaps, but we were all glad of it. Sister Regina did have the grace to look abashed for a moment, the more that she had always been rather a favorite with Sister Anne.
That evening, just before bed-time, Sister Sacristine met me in the gallery and drew me aside into the sacristy, and then into a little inner vaulted room where our most valuable relics were stored, when not exposed to the adoration of the faithful. The precious shrines which were used at these times were kept in another place, whereof the key was already in the hands of the commissioners. Shutting the door, and opening a dark lantern which she carried, she whispered in my ear:
"Loveday, you are a brave girl. I remember how you faced the bull that day he got out. Will you help me to save our most precious relic from profanation?"
"If I can!" said I, doubtfully. "But what is it you want to do?"
She glanced round, and then whispered in my ear:
"I want to let out the Virgin's smoke. But the stopper is too stiff for my fingers, and I want you to open it and let the smoke out. Then we can leave the bottle as we found it!"
Now this bottle of smoke from the Blessed Mother's hearth at Bethlehem was, indeed, our most precious relic, and was looked upon with awful reverence. I fully sympathized with Sister Sacristine's desire to save it from profanation, but I was rather scared at the idea of touching it, not knowing exactly what it might do if it got out.
"Do you think it would be safe?" I asked. "You know how when the over-curious priest opened the vial to smell of it, a huge volume of black smoke issued from it and blasted him as by lightning."
"Yes, but that was different. His was a profane motive, and ours is a devout one. Oh, Loveday, do help me. I can't endure to think of the blessed smoke in that wretch's hands, and, besides, who can tell what it might do."
"I wish it would smother him and Father Simon both!" said I, spitefully. "And Perpetua and Regina as well."
"Oh, my child, we must forgive our persecutors, you know, and I do try. But you will help me, won't you, and I will pray for you all my life."
"Yes, I will help you," I said. "What do you wish me to do?"
"That is a good girl. May all the saints and angels have you in their keeping."
As she spoke she took from a box a little bottle of greenish material, covered with bright flowers somewhat raised. It had a stopper and cap of gold, very curiously wrought, with a hasp or clasp. I suppose no young person who has grown up under the present state of things, can guess the profound awe with which I received the little vessel into my hand. We both kissed it reverently, and then with some trouble, I loosed the hasp and took out the stopper, while we both fell on our knees. Our eyes were fixed on the precious bottle to await whatever might happen. But the surprising thing was, that nothing happened at all. The little vessel lay upon its side in my hand as innocent and pretty as a maids fairing, but there was no smoke—not even a smell of burning.
"Alas! Alas!" sobbed Sister Sacristine, "The Holy Mother has already withdrawn from this house and taken her smoke with her! The glory has departed. Alas! Alas for us! Our Holy Mother has been offended and has withdrawn her protection from these walls. I fear my sins have helped to draw this judgment on us. Mea culpa! Mea culpa!"
For myself, I confess I had a different feeling. I could not see what the Blessed Virgin should want with her smoke if she had gone away. Sister Sacristine's face being buried in her robe, I ventured to turn the mouth of the bottle to the light and even to smell of it. The inside was quite white and clean, and had a faint odor of musk. (Years afterward I found this very bottle, minus the gold ornaments, at a pawn shop in London and bought it for a trifle. My son says it is one of the little things they make in China by the thousand and sell for a few pence. It had been in possession of our house for a very long time, and was no doubt brought from the East by some pilgrim.)
"Dear sister, do not cry so," said I, at last. "Perhaps Our Lady has herself taken away this precious relic that it might not be profaned."
"You don't think it is a miracle, do you?" asked the sister, brightening up.
"Perhaps so," I answered.
"Dear Sister Postulant, how clever you are," said the old lady, wiping her eyes; "I should not have thought of that? Oh, if you could only take the veil here, you would be Superior before you were thirty. But, ah me! Nobody will ever put on the blessed veil in this house again."
"Don't cry any more, dear sister," said I; "and do not let us stay any longer in this damp place; you will have the rheumatism again, and besides, the bell will ring in a minute and we ought to be in our cells."
With much ado, I got her away and helped her to bed, for she was very feeble. I could not help wondering what would become of her. She had come from a distant part of the country and had no living relations that she knew of, and she was growing infirm and rather childish.
It was our custom to assemble at six o'clock in the community room, to give the reverend mother an account of the work we had done and the books we had read the day before. When we were all together, the prioress told us the substance of our visitor's letter. It simply amounted to this, that there was no use in resistance, since it would only exasperate the king and his minister. The commissioners had orders to turn us all out of doors without ceremony in such a case; whereas, by giving way at once, we might be allowed to remain in our old home a few days, till we could provide ourselves with some other shelter. (He did not say how or where this provision was to be made.) If there was any sin in the case, which he did not think, he would give a full absolution. The whole might as well have been put into one sentence: "You will have to go, so you may as well go quietly."
"It seems we have no choice and nothing to do," said Mother Joanna. "Nothing to do but to submit to the hand of violence, committing our cause to Him who judgeth righteously. As to those who for their own ends have slandered and belied this house," she added, "let them beware. There was pardon for Peter, who denied his Lord, for Thomas who doubted, and for the rest who forsook him. It was only Judas, who sold him, of whom it was said: 'It were better for that man if he had never been born.'"
The lady said these solemn words in a tone of sorrow and reproach which might have moved a heart of stone, but I think that Perpetua had not so much as that. But Sister Regina, who was much younger and more foolish than wicked—I do think most of the mischief in the world is done by fools—burst into tears, and sobbing as if her heart would break, she fell on her knees at the mother's feet, kissed the floor and entreated for pardon.
"I forgive you, my poor child," said the prioress, sadly; "in my own name, and those of your mothers and sisters, I forgive you; but alas! Your penitence, inestimable as it is to yourself, cannot undo what you have done. My mothers and sisters, is it your will that I act according to the terms of this letter?"
The asking was only a form, for there was clearly nothing else to be done. Accordingly, when we were again assembled in the choir at nine o'clock, the prioress formally surrendered the keys, saying that she did so in obedience to the orders of our visitor, and praying only for a few days' grace, that the sisters might be able to make some provision for themselves.
"Surely," said Doctor Willard, the elder gentleman, "it were hard to refuse so small a boon as that."
"I thank you, sir," said the prioress; "may you also find grace in your time of utmost need. Here, then, are the keys; I put them into your hands. For the rest, I and my poor children commit ourselves and our cause to Heaven, since we have no hope in this world."
There was a burst of sobs and tears from the mothers and sisters at these words. The prioress alone remained calm, though her face was pale as the marble Virgins above her head. Even Mr. Lethbridge was awed into silence for a few minutes by the dignity of her manner.
"One word more I must say," added the prioress; "as for the bruits which you say have come to your ears touching scandals in this house, I pronounce them utterly false, slanderous and wicked. During the twenty years that I have been assistant within these walls, there has been but one case of scandal, and that was simply an elopement, which happened some eight years ago. For the rest, I defy any one but the most hardened liar and slanderer to say aught against the fair fame of these my dear children."
Mr. Lethbridge openly exchanged glances with Sister Perpetua, but Sister Regina kept her eyes steadfastly fixed upon the ground, while her face flamed with blushes.
"Since you have resigned the house, madam, there is no need to enter into that matter," said Dr. Willard, repressing his colleague, who was about to speak. "For myself, I do not believe these tales to be any thing but the outcome of private malice and revenge, and dictated by the meanest motive."
It was now Sister Perpetua's turn to redden.
"You go too far, Dr. Willard," said Mr. Lethbridge. "Remember, sir, that I am joined with you in this commission."
"I am not likely to forget what is due either to you or myself," said Doctor Willard, calmly. "Madam, we will now excuse your attendance upon what must needs be painful to you. You can keep possession of your own apartments and those of the ladies, only they must be searched to see that no treasure is concealed, as has been the case in other places."
He bowed, as if in dismissal, and we left the choir in our order of procession for the last time.
What a day that was. The prioress bade all those who still acknowledged her authority, which were all but three or four, to gather together such little matters as they were allowed to carry away with them, and then to resort to the community room, where they were to occupy themselves in reading and prayer, and such needlework as was necessary. She warned us against concealing any thing of value, as it would only bring us and herself into trouble. Our little packets were soon made up, and we gathered together, a sad and sorrowing family.
Only Sister Perpetua, and one or two like her, openly threw off all allegiance, put on, at the first possible minute, the secular dresses provided, and went roaming all about the place, talking with the comers and goers who were now profaning our sacred inclosure. For, finding the great gates open, which they had always seen locked and barred, the people of the neighboring hamlet, and from the village of Dartford, were ready enough to gratify their curiosity, as perhaps was only natural. Some were kind and feeling; others openly jeered at our misfortunes, and rejoiced at our downfall; and among these last were several mendicants, who had had their living from our daily doles.
In truth, this daily almsgiving at the gates of these religious houses, brought any thing but respectable people about them.
"Yes, give us the broken pieces and the old clothes, while you eat white bread and drink wine, will you?" mumbled one old woman, for whom I had myself made a new flannel petticoat and serge kirtle only a week before. "We shall see who will have the old clothes and the broken bits now."
"You wont, that's certain, and glad I am, you ungrateful old beldam," said a decent looking woman, who was making her way through the crowd with a basket on her arm. "Who do you think will feed you, ungrateful wretches that you are, when the ladies are gone? Will the king, or the great lord or gentleman who gets the place, do ought for such as you, think you? No, indeed; not even broken crusts will you get, much less such an outfit as was given you last week." Then, catching sight of me, for I had come out upon some errand, I forget what, she continued:
"Young lady, may I ask if Sister Elizabeth is still living—she who used to teach in the school?"
"Oh, you mean she who is now the Sacristine?" said I, after a moment's thought, for I had never heard her called by that name more than once or twice. "Yes, she is living, but quite infirm."
"Poor heart, and to be turned out in her old age—but that she shall not be, so long as Hester Lee has a roof over mun's head—that she shan't!" said the good woman. "Could 'ee bring me to speak with her, my lamb?"
"Come with me," said I, rejoicing at her words, for I had been very unhappy about the poor old sister.
I led the way to a little parlor, and the prioress passing at the moment I told her the woman's errand.
"I am only a mariner's wife, keeping a shop for small wares in Dartford, madam," said the woman, in answer to the reverend mother's question, "but I have enough and to spare. I well remember the lady's goodness to me, a poor orphan maid, among people whose very tongue was strange to me, and who never had a kind word to sweeten the bread they grudged to their brother's orphan. Ah, madam, strange bread is bitter enough to those who have to eat it, without salting it with cold looks and harsh constructions."
"Very true, my daughter," said the prioress; and she sighed. Poor lady, she was no doubt thinking how soon she might have to eat that salt and bitter bread herself.
"And so, madam, by your leave, I have come to ask the old lady to spend the rest of her days under my roof, and she shall be as welcome as flowers in May, and so shall you yourself, madam, if you would honor me so far. I have a fine upper chamber, where you can be as secluded as you will, until you can make some arrangement more suited to your quality. Alas, madam, what have I done?"
For our poor mother, who had not been seen to shed a tear in all our troubles, now burst into a passion of weeping such as I hardly ever saw, and all the more startling in one usually so calm.
"You have done nothing but what is good and right," I whispered, mine own eyes overflowing. "The dear mother will be better for this relief."
Sister Regina who, ever since the morning, had followed the prioress round like a little dog which has displeased his master and wishes to make amends, darted away, and in a minute returned with a glass of fair water and a smelling bottle. The prioress took the water and thanked her; whereat Regina burst out blubbering like a great schoolboy, and retired into a corner to sob and sniff at her ease.
"'Were there not ten cleansed, but where are the nine?'" said our mother, recovering herself, and smiling sadly. "'There are not found that returned again to give God praise, save this stranger.' I shall most certainly advise Sister Elizabeth to accept your hospitality. As for myself, I am provided for, since my brother will gladly give me a home, and also a shelter to this young lady till she can hear from her friends. I will call the sister."
Sister Sacristine had shut herself in her cell, after giving up her keys, and the prioress went herself to seek her, followed as before by Sister Regina. When she had departed, Dame Lee drew near to me, and said, in an awe-struck whisper:
"Mistress, does the lady profess the new religion?"
"No—at least I suppose not," I answered, surprised; "why should you think so?"
"Because she repeated those words. They are from the English Bible."
I remembered, all at once, the great Bible which had been sent down for the church, and which had been removed, as the prioress had said, to a place of safety. Was it possible she could have been reading it all this time? But this was no time to discuss so dangerous a subject, and besides, I wanted to talk of something else. There was that in Hester Lee's tone and accent which were strangely familiar—something which took me back to very early days, before I went to Peckham Hall.
"What part of the country did you come from, dame?" I asked.
"Me, my lamb, I be from Devon—up Clovelly way—I be, and so was my father, rest his soul. Ees, I be from Devon."
"And so am I," I answered, feeling somehow as if I had found a friend, "though 'tis many a long year since I saw the place. My father owned Watcombe Farm."
Dame Hester knew the farm, and was delighted to meet a countrywoman. In the midst of our colloquy, the prioress returned, followed by Sister Sacristine in the secular dress which had been provided for each of us, and very funny she looked in it. She carried a bundle in her hand.
"Yes, I will go with you, Hester, since you are so good as to ask me," said she. "You were always a towardly child, and learned to do white seam quicker than any girl I ever saw. Yes, I will go, and as soon as you please; for I can't endure to see the way they are stripping the church."
"We had best make our way home at once," said Dame Hester. "I have an easy, sure-footed donkey at the gate for the lady. And you, madam—"
"I thank you, Dame Hester, but I must stay till all is over," said the prioress. "You are a sailor's wife," (she had told us as much), "and you know that the captain should be the last in the sinking ship."
"And that is true, madam, and what my husband always says. Well, then, we will bid farewell. Come, good mother, we will soon have you in safety."
They went away, and I never saw the sister again. She did not live very long, but passed her days in great peace under the roof of Jonas and Hester Lee, who tended her like an honored parent, though they had plenty of scoffs and fault-findings from Hester's kindred, who had their eyes on the savings of the childless couple.
As I was about to leave the room, the prioress detained me, sending Regina on some errand to the further end of the house. I was glad of that, for I was still very bitter against her, and believed her close attendance on the reverend mother to be that of a spy, in which belief I now think I did her injustice. She was simply one of those weak fools who are ready to be led by any one that will take the trouble—unless it be some one who has the right to govern them, and then they can be obstinate enough.
"Loveday, I have something here which belongs to you," said she. As she spoke, she produced a packet of some size from her pocket, and with a great throb, I recognized my uncle's handwriting on the outside.
"These are letters from your uncle and his family, which have come from time to time for the last six or seven years," said she. "There is no reason now why you should not have them."
"And why did I not have them before?" was the hot question which rose to my lips. The habit of discipline was strong within me, and I did not ask it; but the prioress answered as if I had spoken.
"Why were they not given to you? Because it was not thought best. It was the desire of my Lady Peckham, who was your legal guardian, that you should make this house your home, and be professed here. We saw that every letter you had from your uncle's family disturbed your mind and made you homesick," (that was true enough), "and therefore we thought it best to break off all such intercourse. My child, I see that you are thinking this very hard, but you must remember that any parent would have exercised the same right over a daughter's letters. Were it to do again, I might act differently. I see many things in a different light from what I did when you first came here. Here are your letters. You may learn from them something about the present state of your uncle's family, though I think the last is two years old."
I need not say how eagerly I received the letters, and how I devoured them. They were written at different times, and all contained assurances of undying regard from my uncle and aunt, with complaints of my silence. The latest was from my uncle, and had been written from a town in Holland, whither the family had removed. My uncle seemed to be in a lively vein, for he recalled various incidents of my stay in the family; at the close, were these words:
"Do you remember the odd experiments I once showed you with chemicals, whereby Sambo was so scared? You know there was one in invisible ink, which the good fellow thought was witchcraft."
A sudden notion flashed across me, which made me gather up all my precious papers, and hasten to the kitchen. A great fire was burning in the fireplace, and the room was empty, for dinner had long been over. Quickly, I held the last dated letter to the hot coals, and as I had half expected, I saw lines of brown writing appear between the black. I read as follows:
"I have sure intelligence that within a year or two at furthest, the religious houses in England will be forced to surrender. Should such a thing happen, do you make your way to London, to the house where I used to live. Master John Davis and his wife will care for you, and put you in the way of hearing from or coming to me. My Lady Peckham being now dead, there will be no one to interfere with you."
How welcome were these lines! I had been wondering what would become of me, and here was a home provided, if I could but make shift to reach it, and that I was determined to do if I had to beg my way. I had just come to this resolution when I heard a step approaching, and hastened to hide my treasure in my bosom. I was both angry and alarmed, for the new comer was Mr. Lethbridge, for whom I had conceived a violent aversion. I would have passed from the room, but he barred the way whichever way I turned.
"Not so fast, not so fast, fair mistress!" said he. "Let me be your confessor, and tell me what you are doing here amid the pots and pans, and whether you are not glad in your heart to escape from this cage, and spread your wings?"
I deigned no answer to the question, but possessed myself of the tongs, as if I would arrange the fire.
"What! Will you threaten me with the tongs, like a second St. Dunstan? Nay, then I may fairly meet force with force."
He came forward and put out his hand, as if to lay hold on me, and, blind with fear and anger, I struck at him with the hot tongs. He recoiled from the blow and stumbled against a dresser, on which Sister Rosina, from mere force of habit, I suppose, had set a great earthen pot of soup, which she had prepared beforehand for the morrow's dinner. Down came the pot, and souse went the greasy liquid over my master's fine clothes and into his hair and eyes. It had been off the fire too long, certainly, to scald, but it was hot enough to be very uncomfortable, and another hasty motion sent the dresser itself, with all its trenchers and pipkins, after the soup. Sister Regina was always saying that dresser would come down some day, and certainly, it took a good opportunity of fulfilling its destiny. While its victim was cursing and swearing and roaring for help, I escaped from the nearest door and ran up a winding stair and through rooms and galleries where I had never been before, to the prioress's own room, bursting in upon her in the most unmannerly fashion.
"Loveday, is this you? Where do you come from, and what ails you?" asked the lady in some displeasure. I mustered my breath as well as I could, and told her what had happened, whereat she laughed—almost the only time I ever saw her do so, though her smiles were frequent enough—I also showed her my uncle's letter, not seeing any harm in so doing, as things were at that time.
"Ay, every one foresees the evil save the one whom it most concerns," said she. "Do you know aught of this Master Davis, save what your uncle says?"
"I have often seen him when I lived in London, reverend mother. He and his son were great friends of mine uncle's. He was well-to-do at that time and in a large way of business, and a learned man—or so I have heard mine uncle say."
"And what say you? Do you incline to go to him?"
I told her frankly, that I did, since mine uncle, who was my nearest relation, and therefore my natural guardian, desired me to do so.
"It is well," said the lady. "If I were going to a house of my own, Loveday, I would ask you to go with me, and be as a daughter to me. But my brother hath a large family, and I shall be but a dependent myself. I had made up my mind to keep you for a time at any rate, but perhaps it is as well. Ah, my poor child, we who thought to die in our nest, must now learn the truth of what the Italian poet saith:"
"'How hard he faresWho goeth up and down another's stairs.'"
"But we must have patience. 'For here we have no continuing city'—well for us if we can add—'but we seek one to come—if, indeed, we look for a city which hath foundations whose builder and maker is God.'"
How I longed to ask her if these words were from the Evangel. But even had I dared to put such a question to her, there was no time, for the portress came in haste to say that a stranger in the parlor desired to speak with the lady, and with Mistress Loveday Corbet, if it might be allowed.
"Fine doings, indeed, if strange men are to come to our house and ask to see a postulant, and that not even on a visiting day," grumbled the poor old woman. "Fine doings, indeed!"
"You forget, my poor sister, that we have no longer a house," said the prioress, sadly. "Did the gentleman give his name?"
"That he did, reverend mother," answered the portress. "No man comes into this house without giving his name while I am portress, though I died the next minute. But this seems a worthy man and civil—a merchant of London, I should say, as mine own honored father was, and he was an iron-monger in East Cheap."
"All this time you are not giving me the gentleman's name," said the prioress, while I was burning with impatience I dared not show.
"I did not say a gentleman, reverend mother, but a merchant, which he says his name is John Davis," answered the portress, coming at last to the matter in hand. My heart sank for a moment, for I thought it might be mine uncle, but it rose again as I considered that Master Davis had probably heard of what had befallen us and had come to seek for me.
So it proved. John Davis looked just as I remembered him, only older. He was a grave and reverend man, with silver hair and beard, a polished demeanor, and more of the scholar in his aspect than one would have expected of a silk mercer. But Master Davis had dealt in far other wares than silks and damask in his day, and had made his profit of them as well.
He greeted the lady with as deep a reverence as though she had still been at the head of one of the best houses in the country—perhaps a little deeper—and proceeded to open his business. He had heard, he said, of the misfortune which had befallen the house, in common with many others, and he had come to find the niece of his old friend and take her to his own home. Then turning his cap in his hand, with some appearance of embarrassment, he adverted to another matter. Heaven had blessed him, he said, with abundant wealth. He should esteem it a favor if the lady would accept a small sum at his hands to help those of the family who were without means or friends.
"You are very kind, sir," said the prioress. "You do not then think that all convents are the sinks of iniquity that they have been represented of late."
"No, madam; I believe they are like all human institutions, both good and bad being mixed up in them."
"But you think, perhaps, they are as well out of the way."
"Madam, you push me to the wall," said the old man, raising his head and regarding her with his clear, steadfast blue eyes. "Since I must declare what I think, I must needs say that what is called the religious life, hath no warrant in Holy Scripture. We find injunctions many, addressed to fathers and mothers, parents and children, husbands and wives, and even to masters and servants, but none to monks and nuns; a strange omission, methinks, if they were expected to form such a great and important part of the church. I will not say that there hath not been good come out of these institutions in times past, but the state of life doth seem to me to be unnatural, and, considering the depravity of the human heart, likely to foster as much evil as good. Nevertheless, I would have more charity and less haste used in the doing away with them, and with all my heart do I pity those poor ladies, who, having no home, are turned out of their only shelter, and would gladly help them so far as it is in my power. I crave pardon, madam, if I offend in my speech. I am but a plain man, and since you would have my mind, I must needs speak plainly."
"You give no offense, sir," answered the lady; and the same odd little half-smile hovered about her lips that I had seen once or twice before. "So you are a reader of the Evangel?"
"Ay, madam, the king's grace now permits persons of my degree to read it openly."
"And is it your will, Loveday, to go with this worthy man?"
"Yes, reverend mother, since mine uncle commands it," said I, marveling at the question; for when Master Davis spoke so plainly, and, above all, when he owned to reading the Bible, I had expected nothing less than a direct prohibition.
"I believe you choose wisely," said the reverend mother. "What means have you of carrying her, Master Davis?"
"I have brought a palfrey for her riding, madam, and I thought if any of the ladies wished to come up to London, they might do so under my escort and that of my servants."
"I will inquire about that. Meantime, my daughter, go and make your preparations."
My few worldly goods were soon gathered together—very few they were—Mistress Davis had been thoughtful enough to send me a riding dress and mask, such as were worn by people of her quality, and I was ready to take leave of the house where I had lived so long, and where I had thought to spend the rest of my days. The dear mothers gave me their blessing and farewells, and in a moment, I was outside the gate. I have never seen the place again.
The king kept it in his own hands for a time, and, I believe, sojourned there more than once. After that, in King Edward's reign, it was the home of Lady Anne of Cleves, the King's divorced wife and adopted sister. Afterward, Queen Mary granted it to some preaching friars, who began a work of restoration which they had no time to finish. Now it belongs to our good queen.
To make an end here of the subject of nunneries—while I think great greed, injustice, falsehood, and cruelty wore exercised in their abolition—I must needs say the land is well rid of them. The secrecy, and the absolute rule, gave opportunity to the exercise of much oppression and cruelty on the part of their rulers, and the victims had no redress. They were made use of, as I have said, by people who wished to get rid of inconvenient relations, and so many persons thus entered, who had no religious sentiment to sustain them, great disorders were likely to prevail (and often did) among companies of young persons with no natural outlet for the passions and affections which God himself hath implanted in our bosoms. Their promiscuous almsgiving did more harm than good, especially with the cloistered orders, who had no means of judging who were worthy and who were mere idle beggars.
Nevertheless, I will always maintain that the work of suppressing them was prompted far more by greed of gain than by any principle of right, and that it was carried on in many cases with great oppression and cruelty, as I have said. However, the king was not, after all, nearly so bad as Cardinal Wolsey, who began the work with the full consent of the pope himself. The king did grant pensions to the older men, and in some cases to the women; which pensions have been paid with tolerable regularity. * (Father Austin receives his, but what he does with it, I cannot say, since he can hardly spend it all in sweets for the children.)
* The last of these pensioners died in the fifth year of James First. See Fuller, for a good account of the matter.
But the cardinal made no provision whatever for those he turned out. Many of the younger nuns married, after a while. (The king changed his mind so often about that matter, that it was hard to know what he would or would not have.) Others took service in families, like Sister Regina, who got a chambermaid's place with my Lady Denny, and, I believe, filled it fairly well for a fool. Some, but I think not many, went wholly to the bad; like Sister Perpetua, who, to be sure, had not far to go.
Our honored mother went to her brother's house, and he losing his wife soon after, she staid to govern his household, and brought up a large family of children who honored her as a mother. Mother Joanna went also to her own home, but she did not live long. Of the rest of the family, I know nothing, save of old Adam, the gardener, who kept his place through all the changes, and died, nearly a hundred years old, in the reign of our present queen.