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HER GRACE'S GENTLEWOMAN.
I STAID with Master Davis two months or more, always hoping to hear from my uncle and always disappointed.
Every one was kind to me. Master and Mistress Davis treated me like a daughter in every respect, and I strove to behave like a dutiful child to them. Mistress Davis found me plenty to do, knowing, dear soul that she ever was, that to make me useful was the way to make me feel at home. I have learned a good many precious recipes for distilling and preserving, and I liked nothing better than putting them in practice.
Then Mistress Andrew Davis fell in love with my playing, and must needs have me give her lessons on the clarichord. She had a fair talent for music, and a sweet, bird-like voice, and I shall never forget her pretty, child-like joy when she was able to surprise her grave husband with a song and a lesson on the instrument he had given her. I pursued my Latin and French, and persuaded Mistress Davis to let me begin to teach the little Helen to read. She proved an apt scholar, and we had pleasant times over our books.
It was a wonderful new world that opened to me during those two months. As I said, I never in my life before had any deep convictions of religion. I had gone through the usual routine in the convent just as I worked my lace and sewed my white seam, but that was all. I had a great dread of death, and when any thing brought it home to me, I would redouble my observances and try to feel as I supposed really religious people felt. But it was all outside of me, so to speak. I believed in God, of course, but it was as a stern judge I thought of him—not by any means as a tender Father. The blessed Virgin was, indeed, kind and gentle, and if I coaxed her enough, she would perhaps command her son to be good to me at that dreadful day of doom.
But ever and always in the background of my mind—that is, after I began to think at all—was that fearful specter of Purgatory, the dread ordeal which must be passed before I could hope for the smallest taste of the bliss of Paradise. I do not mean to say that this was the case with all of our number. Some sweet souls there were who sucked the honey in spite of the thorn, and albeit sorely cumbered and distressed by the barriers which the pride and folly of men had piled in their way, did find access to the very Mercy Seat. Some found a real satisfaction in piling up prayer upon prayer; observance upon observance, thinking they were thereby heaping up merit not only for themselves but their friends. Others, and they were the most, were content to perform such tasks as they could not escape, in as easy a manner as possible, trusting to their religious profession and the offices of their patron saint to help them out at the last.
I had all my life been curious about books, ever since a chit of five years old, I had tumbled off a joint-stool whereon I had climbed to look at the great volume of the Morte d'Arthur which lay in the window-seat in the hall. I got a sound switching across my fingers for meddling, but neither the switching nor the tumble cured me of my hunger for books. This hunger had very little to feed it at Dartford, but it never died out, and I used to read over and over the few volumes we had till I knew them by heart.
It was not to be supposed that with such a disposition I would let the New Testament lie very long on my table without looking into it. I chanced to begin at the first chapter of the Acts of the Apostles—that wonderful book, which always seems to me to have the rushing, mighty wind of the Pentecost blowing through it from beginning to end. It was a Sunday afternoon, I remember, and the streets were full of people waiting to see the King pass by going to see some great lord. I was not well, yet not so ill but I was sitting up by my window to watch the show. To while away the time, I took up the book, and I soon became so lost in it that the whole pageant passed by without my seeing it at all. I was still deep in its pages when Mistress Davis came to see how I fared, and so fully was I absorbed in the story that when she asked me where I had been, I answered her—
"At Jerusalem, madam!"
Whereat she laughed, and answered that "it was a good place to be of a Sunday," adding more seriously: "But I see how it is, and right glad am I to see you so well employed. Only remember this, chick: the Scripture is not made to be read for diversion, like a Canterbury tale, or even like any other good book. 'Tis the Lord's own word sent down for the comfort of us poor sinners, and to guide us to that Home which He hath prepared for them that love Him; and as such, we must study it with reverence and ask for the enlightenment of the Spirit to be shed on its pages."
This was a new idea to me, and I closed the volume for that time with a strange bewilderment of ideas. I could not sleep for thinking of it, and the more I thought, the more bewildered I became. Here was a history of the first age of the church under the apostles themselves, and yet not a word said about the worship of the Holy Mother, the adoration of saints, the sacrifice of the mass, and many other things which I had been led to consider essential to salvation.
"But perhaps they are in the Epistles and Gospels," I thought, "only it is very strange that no more should be said about the Holy Mother after the first chapter, and that then she should only be spoken of in the same way as the other women."
But when I came to read the Gospels it was surprise piled upon surprise. At first it was sheer enjoyment. How lovely were those narratives into which I threw myself with an earnestness which made me forget every thing else for the time being. How real to me were the gatherings to hear the word, the feeding of the multitudes, the sower who went forth to sow, the laborers waiting to be hired and grumbling over their pay, not because they had not enough, but because some one else had as much.
But by degrees other thoughts occupied my mind and heart. I began to compare myself with the full requirements of God's holy law. I stood for the first time face to face with that awful spirit whom men call Conviction of Sin. I was shown that I was condemned under the law, and unless some way of escape were provided, there was nothing before me but destruction—nay, that I was condemned already.
My first thought was to reform myself; but it seemed to me that the more I tried the worse I grew. I am sure I never in all my life gave way so far to temper and fretfulness (always my besetting sins) as at that time. Looking back at those days I can not but wonder at the wise and tender patience of Master and Mistress Davis toward me. As for Philippa, I don't think I am uncharitable when I say that she openly exulted over every outburst. But I don't mean to speak of her more than I can help it. She was, indeed, one of those thorns in the side which seem to have no other use than to try the patience of those who are affected by them, and which only rankle the more the more they are plucked at.
Thus was I shut up under the law, and that which was ordained to life I found to be unto death. It was Margaret Hall who led me out of this prison into the light and life of heaven. She had me to stay with her under pretext of having my help in correcting the press, which I had learned to do with tolerable dexterity. She was one of those blessed saints whose very presence is comfort though they do not speak. By degrees she won from me the secret of my trouble, and then taking my hand, as it were, she led me to the fountain opened for sin, and showed me that spring of living water which has never failed me since, though, woe is me, I have many a time choked its overflow, and turned from it to those broken cisterns that can hold no water.
Oh, what a load she took from my mind. I was, as I suppose a man might be who had worn fetters ever since he could remember, and though dimly conscious of them, did not fully know their weight and hinderance till they were struck off. It was as a new creature that I came back to Master Davis's friendly roof.
But those were trying times—in some respects more trying even than the more bloody days that came under Queen Mary. Then, at least, one knew what to expect. The king was growing more and more infirm and capricious all the time, and worked changes in church and state till it took a good head to know what was heresy and treason and what was not.
Already my Lord Cromwell had been filled with the fruit of his own devices, and now, within six short months after he had been created Earl of Essex (that title which hath proved almost as unlucky to its possessor as the famous horse Sejanus), he lay in the Tower, attainted of treason, and waiting for the very block and as to which he himself had sent so many. His real offense lay in purveying to the king a wife who did not please him—the Lady Anne of Cleves, already divorced and living in her own house, treated by the king as his sister, happy in her endless tapestry work and in munching the suckets and comfits her Flemish ladies-in-waiting purveyed for her. She was not one to take any thing very much to heart which did not interfere with her bodily comfort. The king had already turned his dangerous fancy toward the ill-fated Katherine Howard, but I don't believe the Lady Anne felt one pang of jealousy thereat. She was, with all reverence, like a gentle, fat cow, perfectly content so long as she had food and drink, and the flies were not too troublesome.
But it was not the alterations in state matters and the rise and fall of one great man or another which troubled our peace. It was the dreadful uncertainty in matters of religion.
Just now, the bloody statute of the Six Articles was law, but it was enforced rigidly or not, as the king's humor was, or the influence of Archbishop Cranmer or of Bonner and Gardiner came uppermost. These two last were the moving and ruling spirits in all persecutions at this time, as they were afterward in the more bloody days of Queen Mary. They had consented to the suppression of the convents, and were even most forward in the matter, being willing, I suppose, to swim with the current so far if but they might have their way as to the reading of the Scriptures and some other matters.
They were wise enough to know that all was naught with their cause if the Bible came to be generally read; but they were not far-seeing enough to understand that the same Bible, having once been given to the people, they could no more take it back than they could bring back again the day that is past. They could not imprison or burn every one who read it, and who thought out conclusions for himself, else must they have put the whole city of London under sentence of death, as King Philip the Second of Spain did to the Netherlands. But they picked up one here and another there, and nobody felt any security, or knew but some spy was observing his movements in order to betray him.
One week the king hanged six monks, with their prior at their head, for defending a monastic life; the next, he threatened with a like fate any monk or nun who, having taken the vows of that life, should presume to marry. As his infirmities increased, his temper grew more uncertain, till at last any man seemed to take his life in his hand who had to do with the king.
Then there were great disorders every where, some rising out of religion, others from the excessive taxation which pressed heavily upon all classes. Discontent was smouldering in all quarters, and now and then broke out into open flame, as in the two Pilgrimages of Grace, and other insurrections. It is not to be denied that the Protestants, as they began to be called, were also guilty of indecencies and extravagance. If you dam up a rapid stream, though never so clear, and your dam be swept away, the first overflow will be turbid and violent, and likely enow to do mischief.
Moreover, if the people enacted ridiculous plays, and sang ribald songs in the churches, they had seen these very same things allowed, nay, encouraged by the church, in the spectacles of the Boy Bishop and the Pope of Fools—those strange and extravagant parodies of the most sacred offices of the church.
Yes, it was indeed a troublesome time, and every man who, despite the commands of the king and his ministers, continued to read the Holy Scripture, and to frame his belief and life thereby, took that life in his hand; yet many households did it, and lived happy in the midst of disaster, and peaceful on the very field where the battle was raging.
Such a household was ours. One there was, indeed, who would not enter in herself, and who would fain have hindered those who would do so. I confess I used to be afraid of Philippa at times, not that in her sober senses she would have been so base as to put the brand with her own hands to the thatch which sheltered her, but in her fits of temper there was no saying what she might do. Besides, she was one of those unhappy people to whom it seems absolutely necessary to hate something. In those days it was the Protestants. Now, she thinks I am greatly to blame in harboring poor, harmless old Father Austin; looks upon the book of Common Prayer as a remnant of popery, and upon bishops as at best very doubtful characters. She hates all Romanists and Prelatists, as she calls them, in just the same spirit that she used to hate the Scripture-readers—because they do not agree with her.
But at that time she contented herself with hating, and did no covert act, save by keeping away from the Scripture-readings—for which no one blamed her, as she made it matter of conscience, and with bitter gibes and taunts whenever the subject was introduced, and, above all, if the talk turned upon personal religion and inward experience. But as she had taken to solitude and keeping of her hours, and the like, so she was out of the way a good deal. Meantime, our household went on its way, in the midst of the commotion, like a stanch ship in a troubled sea. There was anxiety, indeed, which became sharp fear and agonized suspense, when the master of the family did not come home at the accustomed hours; but as yet, this was the worst which had befallen us.
Master Hall no more printed Bibles openly, but I knew well that they were both made and sold in secret. However, he multiplied copies of the vulgate, and of Erasmus's Paraphrase of the New Testament, so that every one who could make shift to read the very easy Latin could have one. Afterward, the universal reading even of the vulgate came to be forbidden, but it was not so at that time. People grew eager to have their children taught to read, and all the day-schools were full. Greek, too, was more and more studied, and many ladies, especially about the Court, were good Grecians. I had a great fancy to learn it myself, and made, with Margaret Hall's help, a good beginning; which, however, never came to be much more.
I was all this time growing very uneasy at my state of dependence. It was true, as Master Davis had told me at first, that God had blessed him with abundant means, but then he had a great many uses for those means. The old mother of his first wife was still living, and as she persisted in keeping up her own house, and had little or nothing whereon to do it, somebody had to do it for her. I had been in the house some weeks, and had visited her several times, before I found out that she was wholly dependent upon her son-in-law's bounty. She was only one of many pensioners. Besides, I fancy a good deal of the profit of the silk money wont in another way.
There was then in England a sort of secret society called the Christian Brothers. This society was composed of well-to-do merchants and tradesmen, for the most part, though it numbered both priests and gentlemen among its members. It had its correspondents and branches all over the country, and its object was to scatter far and wide copies of the sacred Word. As the merchant journeyed with his string of packhorses, laden with cloth, or silk, or hangings, or whatever might be his commodity, there was cunningly hidden under the bales a case or two of Bibles, Testaments, and such portions thereof as might be more easily concealed.
When he came to a town, he had usually knowledge beforehand who was like to be well-affected to the faith, or he inquired, like the disciples of old, who therein was worthy, and there he took up his abode, disposing of his merchandise, and giving of his books as he found occasion.
The truth was, that ever since the times of Master Wickliffe and the Lollards, there were those scattered about both this kingdom and Scotland, who had kept the faith and handed it down from father to son, together with some written copies of Master Wickliffe's Bible. But these copies, being gradually outworn, and becoming more and more hard to understand, from the change of language in all those years, it may be guessed how eagerly and joyfully these poor, faithful ones would welcome the Word of Life fairly imprinted, and in such a shape as could be easily hid away, if need were, or carried about when there was no danger.
I have heard old folk, who remembered far back, say that the Lollards, as men called them, were in the habit of putting certain marks and signs upon their houses which were known to no one else, and which served to guide those of them who traveled to the homes of their friends. I vouch not for the story, but 'tis like enow to be true.
Master Davis and his sons were members of this society, and I now learned that mine uncle had been a great promoter of it. Of course such service was not only perilous, but it cost a great deal in money, and brought no return as the riches of this world. I could not but notice how plain was Mistress Davis's own dress and that of her children, and how both she and Margaret did forego many of the luxuries and ornaments indulged in by others of their station. They could not carry their practice in this respect too far, however, since this very simplicity in attire and living might throw suspicion upon them.
Mistress Davis was kind enough to say that the help I gave her about the house, and the care of the little ones, did more than offset the expense she was at for me; but I knew, in truth, that help was very little, though the dear soul took pains to make many occasions for my services that I might not feel myself a burden.
I was young and strong. I was able to work, and had been blest with a good education, and it did not seem right that these good friends, on whom I had no claim, should be burdened with my maintenance. I began to cast about for some business whereby I could earn my bread, and had almost made up my mind to set up a little school, when fate, or rather Providence, (to speak like a Christian instead of a heathen), cast in my way the very thing for which I was best suited.
I have mentioned before that Mistress Davis had an elder sister who held an important place in the household of Katherine, Duchess of Suffolk. This lady, the daughter and heir of Lord Willowby by a beautiful Spanish lady, whilom maid of honor to the unfortunate Queen Katherine, had been left in ward to the Duke of Suffolk, her father's best friend. She was bred up under his care, and when she came to woman's estate, he married her.
Mistress Isabel Curtis—that was the name of Mistress Davis's sister—had been about the young lady since her infancy, and, as was natural, she still continued in her service and affection, and had a great deal to do in the management of that great household. She had been out of town with her mistress at the duke's new manor of Hereham, given him by the king in exchange for the suppressed priory of Leiston; but the family were now at their house in London, and on the first occasion possible, Mistress Curtis had come to visit her sister, between whom and herself there subsisted a devoted affection not often seen—more's the pity—in that relation.
I had just come home from Master Hall's, where I had been helping Margaret correct the sheets of Erasmus his Paraphrase. (I was not allowed to help in the work done by the secret press, lest I should be brought into trouble thereby.) I had also been giving a lesson on the lute to Mistress Alice, Andrew's wife, and I was feeling very elate because her mother, a stately dame, had rewarded me with a broad Spanish gold piece for the pains I had taken in teaching Mistress Alice some old ditty which the lady had liked in her youth. I heard below that there was a guest in the parlor, and not liking to intrude unasked, I was passing to my room, when Mistress Davis called me in and presented me to her sister. I made my courtesy, and fell in love with her then and there, even as I had done with Mistress Davis.
Mistress Curtis would have made two of her little sister. She was tall and inclining to be stout, but not unbecomingly so. Her features, though large, were regular, her mouth somewhat thin, her chin beautifully formed. But it was her eyes that gave the chief beauty to her face. I hardly ever heard any two people agree about their color. They were, in fact, gray, but the pupils were so large and had such a trick of dilating that they looked black. Like all the gray eyes I have ever seen, they had great powers of expression, and a wonderful keenness and brilliancy, which seemed to look one through and through. Associating, as she had always done with great people, and having such a responsible charge, her manner had in it something of command, yet not mingled with aught haughty or supercilious. I never saw the like of Mistress Curtis before, and I am quite sure I never shall again.
She received me very graciously, and, Mistress Davis having invited me to do so, I fetched my work and took a stool near the window. I was at that time bestowing all my skill on the embroidery of a set of kerchiefs and mufflers for Mistress Davis—and I may say, without vanity, that I was not ashamed to show my white seam and sprigs with any body.
Mistress Curtis looked at and commended my work, and then pursued her conversation with her sister.
"And so Mrs. Anne is married!" said Mistress Davis. "I trust she hath done well."
"Why yes, I think so!" answered Mistress Curtis. "The match is, perhaps, somewhat below her degree, since Master Agnew is but a yeoman born, but then he hath a fair estate and is himself a man of good conditions. Mrs. Anne was ever one who loved housewifery and a country life, and she hath an easy, patient temper. Yes, I think she may be very happy."
"And who hath filled her place?"
"Nobody as yet. The Duke will have none but gentlewomen about his wife, at least in her chamber, and her Grace would like some young lady who can read aloud in Latin and English, and hath skill with the lute and voice. She loves music above any one I ever saw, though she does not sing."
I could not help looking eagerly up at this. Mistress Davis saw it, and smiled.
"Here is Loveday thinking, 'Now that is just the place for me,'" said she. "Were you not, chick?"
I confessed that some such matter had been in my thought.
"And why should it be in your thought?" asked Mistress Curtis, a little severely, as it seemed. "Are you not happy and content with my sister?"
"More than happy, madam," I answered. "I should be the basest of ingrates were it otherwise. But Master and Mistress Davis have many burdens on their hands already, and it seems not right that I should add to them, being young and strong, and having (under your favor, madam) a good education, which ought to stand in stead in earning a living."
"Why that is speaking well, and like a sensible woman," said Mistress Curtis. "How old are you?"
I told her that I was eighteen.
"It is full young, her Grace herself being so youthful; and yet better the follies of youth than those of age," she added, in a musing tone.
"Loveday is not perfect more than other young people," said Mistress Davis; "but yet I think she hath as few of these follies as fall to the lot of most maidens. I hope my own wenches * may grow up as good and towardly as she. But Loveday, why should you wish to leave us?"
"Only because I would not be a burden on your hands, dear aunt," (so I had called her of late, by her own desire). "You have many to do for who are really helpless from age and sickness, and I cannot but feel that I am robbing some such person when I eat the bread of idleness in your house."
* Wench and wretch were terms of endearment in those days, and the former is so still in some parts of England. Sir Thomas More uses it to his daughters.
"Oh, ho! I see that we can think for ourselves, and that to purpose," said Mistress Curtis, with a smile. Hers was one of those faces in which the eyes smile before the lips. "But what of your family, damsel? Are you of gentle blood?"
I satisfied her on that point. Indeed the Corbets are among the oldest of our old Devon families, and go back far beyond the Conqueror. (N. B.—'Tis no great wonder he conquered, seeing how many people's ancestors came over with him.) Then she would have me read and sing for her. Being naturally somewhat agitated, I did not acquit myself as well as usual, but Mistress Curtis seemed to be satisfied.
"I see, indeed, that you have been well taught," said she. "You are convent-bred, you say. Where?"
I told her. "It was a good house," she said, musingly: "I much wonder, sister, what young ladies will do for schools of education now that the convents are all gone. 'Twere a good deed for some one to set up a school where such might board and study under good mistresses. Well, my young lady, I like your conditions, so far as I see them. With my sister's permission, I will now ask you to withdraw, that I may talk the matter over with her."
Mistress Davis called me aside and gave me some commission or other about dainties for the supper table. I had often exercised my skill in this way since I came to London. I went to the kitchen and asked Madge, the cook, to have all things in readiness for me, and then retiring to my closet, I prayed earnestly that all things might be ordered for the best. Then, leaving the matter where it belonged, I betook myself to the making of such a device in blanc-manger as should adorn the supper table and do honor to our guest.
After the meal was over and Mistress Curtis had departed, Master and Mistress Davis called me into the parlor and bade me sit down. They told me that while I was most welcome to remain in their house and family as long as I needed a home, yet they could not but commend the spirit which led me to wish to earn mine own living.
"It is not every great family to which I should like to send a young lady," said Master Davis, "but the Duke of Suffolk's household hath ever had a reputation for man-loving and godliness."
"What like is his Grace?" I ventured to ask.
Master Davis smiled.
"Like a knight of the past age," said he. "More I will not tell you. The present Duchess is very young, but she hath been well brought up and comes of a good stock. She shows her sense in keeping my good sister Curtis at the head of her household. Well, then, my child, you shall wait upon the Duchess to-morrow, and if you are mutually pleased, you shall take the place my sister offers you. But remember, Loveday, that you are always to have a home in this house."
I thanked him for his goodness as well as I could—for the rebellious tears would come in spite of me—saying I should never forget the kindness shown me in that house, and Mistress Hall's goodness.
"The obligation hath been mutual, my dear," said Mistress Davis. "I do not know what the children will say, especially Bess and Helen."
"And you will let me know so soon as you hear from mine uncle," said I.
"Yes, indeed," answered Master Davis, but he sighed and the sigh was echoed by his wife.
I knew that he had little hope of ever hearing from Gabriel Corbet again. Those were days (as they are still abroad) when a man could easily drop out of sight and never be found or heard of again.
I have thought since that one reason why Master Davis was so ready to let me go, was a consideration for mine own safety. The Duke of Suffolk was in great favor with Henry, and was, indeed, his brother-in-law as well as god-father to the little Prince Edward, and he was one of the few men who dared cross the King's humor now and then. Gardiner hated him, but he was rather too high a quarry for that foul kite to fly at, bold as he was in those days.
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HER GRACE.
THE next day at noon, which was the time appointed by Mistress Curtis, my aunt and I presented ourselves at the great new mansion which the Duke of Suffolk had built for himself in Southwarke, over against the church of St. George. This house came afterward into the king's possession, and is now used as a mint for the coinage of money. I had passed the house more than once and admired its ornaments, little thinking that I should ever live there.
The porter was at the door, and seemed to have been expecting us, for he called another man, who led us up the great stairway, and through a grand gallery all hung with weapons, bright armor and pictures, to a parlor, where Mistress Curtis met us and conducted us without delay to the withdrawing-room of the duchess. The room was a small one, but so beautiful with silken hangings, Turkish rugs and other ornaments, that it was like a casket prepared for some precious jewel; and wonderful, indeed, was the jewel it enshrined.
"Good morrow to you, Mistress Davis," said a sweet voice; "so, my good Curtis tells me, you have purveyed me a gentlewoman who is quite a paragon."
"No paragon, an' it please your Grace, but a well-bred and discreet young lady," answered Mistress Davis, modestly yet without servility.
"So much the better; I shall not be afraid of her. Look up, maiden, and let me see you."
I raised my eyes to the lady's face as I spoke, and it is no exaggeration to say that I was dazzled. She was always lovely to the last day of her life, but at that time, her beauty was simply wonderful. Knowing her mother to have been a Spanish lady, I had expected to see some one with black hair and an olive skin. Instead of that, the Duchess was most brilliantly fair, with a complexion of such clearness as to show the delicate blue veins about her temples, while her hair, which was straight and surprisingly abundant, was of the loveliest paly gold. I have since learned that this brilliant fairness belongs to certain very noble families in Spain, and they are extremely proud of it as showing their pure Gothic descent. The eyes were of a violet blue, large and well opened; the mouth firm in outline, with a host of dimples dancing in and out whenever she smiled.
She was very kind and even playful in her manner, yet not so as to invite any unbecoming freedom. She questioned me about my accomplishments, but said kindly that she would not ask me to sing, as it would hardly be a fair trial. Then she asked me why I wished to leave my present home, and I told her—because I would fain earn my own living instead of hanging on the hands of Master Davis.
"I am afraid you are a phœnix, after all," said she, laughing merrily, "and yet I could wish there were more of your kind. How is it, Mistress Davis, that you have not found a husband for this child."
"So please your grace, Loveday might have had a husband had she so chosen, but her mind was not to take him, and beside that, we had no authority to do so; neither my husband nor myself would force a young maid's inclinations in such a matter. I have seen too much of that in my day."
(This was true, though I forgot to mention it in the proper place. A good merchant with quite a family of children had proposed for me, but I had no mind for him. Marry, an' I could have taken the children and the house, without the man, I would have liked it well enough!)
"I think you are right," said the Duchess. "As you say, it is done far too often. Well, my maiden, I am well pleased with your appearance and with all that I hear of you. When can you come to me?"
I told her I knew of nothing to hinder my coming at once.
"Very well; my good Curtis will instruct you in your duties, and see that you are provided with fitting apparel."
"Not so, please your Grace," said Mistress Davis. "I must beg the privilege of myself purveying Loveday's wardrobe on her first going forth into the world."
"As you please, good dame," said the Duchess; "only let her come as soon as possible. Curtis, will you provide some refreshment for your friends and settle every thing needful with them."
We made our obeisance and withdrew to Mistress Curtis's own apartment, where we found a collation already provided.
Now that the thing was done, I must needs confess that I was rather scared, and began to wish that I had followed my first plan of setting up a little school. I had never associated with great ladies, save indeed in the convent, where rank was not much considered. I began to wonder how I should ever find my way about these long galleries and staircases, and whether I should ever feel at home with my new mistress. However, I reflected that, after all, these fine things were but passing shows, and the people I should have to deal with were men and women, and—what was most comforting—that the best Help and Shelter of all would be with me as much in these grand halls as in my room at Master Davis's, and by dint of such reflections and lifting up my heart in prayer, I was prepared to hear and understand when Mistress Curtis was ready to talk with me about my duties.
These were simple enough. I found that I was required to take my turn with the other gentlewomen in attending upon her Grace in her chamber and helping her to dress, to stand behind her chair at mealtimes and when her Grace received or went into company, and, above all, to entertain my mistress with reading and music whenever she was inclined.
"I think you will agree with the other waiting gentlewoman, Mistress Emily Mandeville, very well," said Mistress Curtis. "She is a good creature, and wholly devoted to her lady. As to the rest of the household, you will have little to do with them. You will have your own room, to which you may retire when off duty, and you will share this parlor with myself and Mistress Mandeville. I need not tell you that you are expected, when in her Grace's apartment, to hear all and say nothing, and I trust you need no warning against gossiping and repeating conversation out of the house."
"I trust not, indeed, madam!" I answered, feeling my cheeks grow hot at the very idea that such a caution was needful. "I am not likely to tattle, seeing I know no one in London but Mistress Davis and her family, who are not likely to tempt me to such baseness."
"Nay, be not so warm!" said Mistress Curtis, smiling. "There was no accusation in my words, only a warning, which is quite a different matter."
"I ask pardon, madam!" I answered, feeling ashamed of my hastiness. "Quickness of temper is my failing, but I trust, by God's grace, to correct it time."
"'Tis half the battle to know one's fault," gently answered Mistress Curtis; "but yet I counsel you, maiden, to strive with all your might against it. A hasty temper often does more harm in five minutes than can be undone by the bitter repentance of a lifetime."
I thought I had too much reason to know that.
"I never thought it so bad a fault as some others—as lying and deceit!" observed Mistress Davis.
"True, sister. Deceit is to all other faults as the King's Evil * to other diseases. It infects the whole soul as that the whole body, blood, flesh and bone, and one never knows when it may break out or what form it may take. But there is no single fault which, when indulged, does not drag a chain of other sins along with it. Learn, then, to rule thy spirit, dear maiden, and so to be greater than he that taketh a city, as the wise man says. Now, as to a less important matter, but yet one of weight, especially with young maids—your clothes!" she added, smiling.
* What we now call scrofula. It was named King's Evil from the fact that the Kings of England were believed to have the power of curing it.
"If it please you, madam, do you and my Aunt Davis settle that between you," I answered. "I am sure you will know best."
"Why, so we will. Meantime, you may go into the next room, where you will find an instrument, some music books, and other volumes with which you may amuse yourself."
I rose, nothing loth, and passed into the next room; a very pretty one with an oriel window, and having a lute and virginals * and a pile of music books, and looking these over I discovered a book of the psalms in French meter with music attached. I could not forbear trying these with the spinet, and was so much engaged with them, that I started as if shot when some one opened the door. I rose in some confusion, when I found my visitor was a tall, stately gentlemen, splendidly dressed, but one who would have shown his dignity in any weeds.
* The spinet, clarichord and virginals wore all ancestors of the piano-forte. See a very interesting article in Macmillan's "English Magazine" for January, 1884.
"I crave pardon for startling you, fair lady," said he, with a gesture of courtesy. "I was looking for Mistress Curtis, and hearing your voice, my curiosity would not be satisfied without seeing the singer. Pray, good Curtis—" as she entered by the other door—"what fair lady is this who sings so charmingly?"
Mistress Curtis explained the matter. I had guessed already that I stood in the presence of the Duke of Suffolk. He heard her to the end, glancing at me now and then, as I stood withdrawn into the recess of the window.
"It is well," said he. "I have every reason to trust your discretion, my good Curtis, and glad I am that my dear wife's love of music should be so gratified. What did you call the young lady's name?"
"Loveday Corbet, your Grace."
"Corbet—Corbet!" he repeated, musingly. "That is a west country name and a good old family. Come you from Devon, Mistress Corbet?"
"Yes, your Grace," I answered. "My father was a gentleman of North Devon, though I believe his father removed to London before he was born."
"Have you any friends there living at present?"
"None, your Grace, now that my Lady Peckham is dead. Her first husband was a distant kinsman of my father's."
"Corbet—I have heard the name lately, but I cannot place it," said he. "Well, my young lady, I trust you may be happy and useful in this house. Your mistress is a most lovely lady, and easily pleased. Let me give you a token to hansel your first entrance into my family."
So saying, he placed a gold piece in my hand, and then turned away and left the room. Such was my first sight of Charles Brandon, the good Duke of Suffolk, and ever to my mind the very mirror of all knightly and manly virtues.
I went home in a somewhat dazed and bewildered frame of mind, but once in the solitude of my own room, I soon composed myself and was ready to meet Master Hall's jokes and Philippa's bitter gibes on my promotion with equal serenity. Indeed, however full of fun and merriment Master Hall might be, he never forgot to be kind. It was not so easy to bear the children's remonstrances and tears, especially those of my own little pupil, Helen, a tender, spirited little maid, who had become very dear to me, but the matter was settled now, and there was no help for it.
And, indeed, considering the whole affair calmly in my chamber, I did not wish to help it. I was convinced that I had done right in relieving Master Davis of my maintenance. I also felt sure of a faithful friend and counselor in Mistress Curtis. I was charmed with my new master and mistress, and saw no reason why I need not be happy in serving them. I had a little my doubts of my companion in waiting, Mistress Mandeville. I thought she looked prim and formal, but I would not allow myself to be set against her beforehand.
Yes, I believed I had acted wisely, and was content to leave the result of my action in the hands of Him whom I had learned to consider my best friend. I knew I should always have the Davis family and Margaret Hall to fall back upon, if I needed such support. They had already done for me more than I could ever repay, were it only in bringing me to a knowledge of the Scriptures. Margaret, especially, had opened to me a great new world of thought, which could never be closed again, happen what might.
Surely God had been very good to me, though for so many years I had never learned to love Him—never thought of Him if I could help it, and then only as one to be dreaded and propitiated if possible, and who, if I only made myself uncomfortable enough, might perhaps be won at least not utterly to destroy me. Let those testify who know by their own experience, what a change is made in the life when God's love is shed abroad in our hearts.
But I must hasten on to my tale. 'Tis the nature of old folk to be garrulous, and I find I am no exception to the rule, especially when I have a pen in my hand.
Just a week from my first visit to Suffolk House, I betook myself thither, accompanied by Mistress Davis, and followed by one of the men bearing my bundles. My great mail was to come later in the day. I remember St. George's clock was just striking nine as we passed near it, and I saw a poor woman, whom I knew at once had been a religious of some kind, standing under the porch. I had some loose silver in my pocket, and I could not forbear putting a couple of groats into her hand. She started and colored, and then thanked me eagerly, and turned quickly away. In a moment more, we saw her enter a baker's shop close by.
"Poor thing, did she not look hungry?" said Mistress Davis. "You have given her one good meal, at all events."
"She is, or rather has been, a religious," said I. "I am sure of it."
"Very like, very like! I must try and speak with her when I come back. Theirs is a hard fate, poor souls!"
"Yes, they do not all fall into such warm nests as I did!" I could not help saying, whereat she squeezed my hand lovingly.
I heard afterward that she saw the woman, and finding her clever with her needle, she got her work that made the poor sister very comfortable. Helping one out of the hundreds who were in need, was like helping one fly when hundreds are drowning, yet is it altogether better for that one fly than if you were to leave him to drown too.
I took leave of my dear Aunt Davis, and certainly I did feel rather forlorn as I applied to the fat, surly, consequential porter at the hall-door to be led to Mistress Curtis. However, he was very civil—like master, like man—and I soon found myself conducted into my own little room and left to prepare myself to attend my mistress at dinner. It was by no means as sumptuous as my room at Master Davis his house, but yet comfortable enough. There was a small bed hung with blue stuff, a joint-stool, chair and small table with a mirror hung above it. And in one corner was a sort of cabinet, with drawers, for my clothes. The window commanded a pleasant view. The maid who attended to help me unpack my goods, told me that Mistress Mandeville's room was next mine.
"Who is that?" I asked, as an elderly lady, dressed in deep, but old fashioned, black passed me, giving me a keen glance as she did so.
"That is Mistress Patience. She was a great friend of her Grace's mother—I have heard say she attended on Queen Katherine, and was left in great misery after her death, till her Grace found her. She hath been in clover ever since, but some think she is not quite right in her mind."
I looked with great interest at the old lady, as she walked to the end of the gallery, seemingly only for the exercise. As she met and passed me in returning, she dropped her stick; I picked it up quickly and put it into her hand, whereat she gave me another keen glance and thanked me, adding in a clear though trembling voice, and a somewhat foreign accent:
"You are my new neighbor, I suppose."
"Yes, madam!" I answered.
"Ay. Well, be faithful and you shall have your reward."
I courtesied and followed my guide down the stairs, noting carefully all the turns, that I might be able to find my way back. Mistress Curtis greeted me kindly, saying I was just in time to attend my mistress at dinner. Accordingly, she led me to the duchess her withdrawing-room, where I found her splendidly dressed and beautiful as ever.
"So, here is my singing bird!" said she. "We must make trial of your gifts by and by. Meantime, be you acquainted with Mistress Mandeville, your companion in service."
Mistress Mandeville courtesied and said something civil. She was of medium height, with eyes of that sort which seem to have no particular color, a reasonably good skin and features, and she carried herself remarkably well. She passed for a model of prudence, propriety, and all the other good Ps, because she never expressed an opinion of her own, and, indeed, never talked if she could help it. I lived in the house with her six months, and did not know her one bit better at the end of the time than at the beginning. But we never had an unpleasant word, and I really think she liked me as well as she knew how to like any body.
We stood behind our lady's chair at the dinner, which was very splendid and well furnished, with guests of great quality. The Duke entertained many gentlemen in his household, and the expenses of the table alone were something fabulous. As I glanced down the long board, I saw at the lower end a face and figure which seemed at once to take me back to childish days at Peckham Hall. The dress was that of a priest, but I could not see the face plainly for a great burly count from the Low Countries who sat above. The glimpse I had, excited me to a lively curiosity, and I longed for another, but when I looked again the priest had left the board.
"Now we shall have our dinner," said Mrs. Mandeville, with some appearance of interest. (It was the only subject on which she ever did show any animation.) "I hope they have not eaten up all the sturgeon."
I felt for a moment foolishly humiliated at having to sit down to the board after others had finished, but I might have spared myself that mortification, for I found that the ladies and gentlemen attendant directly upon the Duke and Duchess dined in a chamber by themselves, and as well as any one at the great board, if they chose. It was a fast day, and I, who was accustomed to keep the fasts and feasts of the church, was surprised to see the delicacies which were served to us.
Mistress Curtis presided at the board and kept order, yet was there abundance of lively conversation among the young gentlemen. Only when it seemed verging upon too much freedom did Mistress Curtis, smilingly, call them to order. There were half a dozen pages of noble, or at least gentle, birth, who were being bred up in the Duke's household, and instructed in all sorts of manly exercises in the tilt-yard and manege, besides what book-learning they got with a master entertained for the purpose. Two or three of these were little lads of an age, as it seemed, to be under their mothers, and it pleased me to see how these children came about Mistress Curtis when the meal was done, and how kindly she spoke to them. One of them had been crying, and, on being questioned, owned that he had been in difficulties with his tutor on account of certain pronouns whereof he could by no means understand the declensions.
"Bring your book to me," I ventured to say, (I knew I had an hour to myself at this time) "and, with Mistress Curtis's leave, I will see if I can help you."
"Do so, Roger, since Mistress Corbet is so kind," added Mistress Curtis.
The little fellow—he was no more than seven years old—brightened up and ran off for his book.
"Law's me, Mistress Corbet, what pleasure can there be in spending your play-hour over a Latin grammar and a stupid lad?" said Mrs. Mandeville.
"Oh I like teaching, and I remember mine own troubles with these same declensions," said I; and little Roger returning, I took him into the window-seat and soon made his way plain for him.
"Thank you, madam," said the child, gratefully. "I wish I might do my lessons with you every day. Master Sprat is so cross, and when I am puzzled, he says I could learn if I would—but I can't learn unless I understand. But he is going away to his now cure—much good may it do him," said Roger, brightening up, "and perhaps Master Corbet may be more good-natured."
"Corbet!" said I. "That is my name."
"It is our new master's name, too, and we are to begin with him to-morrow."
"Then see that you have your task well conned, so as not to shame your mistress," said I.
He was such a baby that I could not forbear kissing his round, fair cheek. Then I betook myself to Mistress Curtis's parlor, where I found her, and also Mistress Mandeville, who was making a kerchief at the rate of ten stitches a minute, and lifting every one as though she were prying up stones with a crowbar. It did always make me ache to see her sew.
"Well and what of your pupil?" asked Mistress Curtis.
"Oh, I have sent him away happy," said I. "'Tis a fine little lad, though he says his master calls him stupid because he can not learn what he does not understand."
"I dare say. He is a crabbed, austere man, soured by poverty and hard study before he came here, and his temper is not sweetened by the tricks the mischievous lads play on him. But he goes away very soon to some benefice or other. By the way, the new tutor has the same name as your own."
"So little Roger tells me," said I. "I had a distant cousin of that name, my Lady Peckham's son, who went to study for a priest. I wonder if this could possibly be the same?"
"This young man hath come up to London, as understand, to study the Hebrew tongue," said Mistress Curtis.
"Dear me, why should he want to learn Hebrew?" asked Mrs. Mandeville. "He is not a Jew, is he?"
"If he were, he would probably know Hebrew without learning it," answered Mistress Curtis. (Somehow Mrs. Mandeville's stupid speeches always did seem to put her out of temper.) "I suppose he wishes to study the Scripture in the original tongue."
"Well, I would not like to know so many strange tongues and things. I should be afraid of being burned for a wizard."
"That would be a waste of faggots, certainly," returned Mistress Curtis, dryly. "But there is the clock. Young ladies, it is time you went to your mistress."
Mrs. Mandeville led the way, and I soon found myself behind my lady's chair in the great withdrawing-room, which was crowded with guests, both ladies and gentlemen, come to pay their court. The Duchess seemed to know all, and have a pleasant word for all. The Duke stood near, now and then addressing a word to his wife, and there was ever that interchange of loving and familiar glances so pleasant to see between married people. He was more than old enough to be her father, and, indeed, she was his fourth wife, his third having been the Princess Mary of England, the king's sister, and dowager of France. It was on the occasion of this marriage that he appeared at a tourney in a dress half of cloth of gold and half of frieze, with this motto:
"Cloth of frieze be not too bold.Though thou be matched with cloth of gold.Cloth of gold do not despiseThough thou be matched with cloth of frieze."
It was said all his marriages had been love matches, and I could easily believe it, for a nobler pattern of a man I never saw. He was the model of all knightly and gracious exercises in tourney and field, having gained more than one victory by his prowess, and he was counted equally wise and discreet in the council hall. He was also a great patron of the new learning and a protector of those who followed it, nor did he disdain the more trifling arts of music and painting. I, who at that time had never seen a good picture, used to spend half my leisure in looking at those which the duke had brought home from Italy and the Low Countries.
Of course, I had nothing to do but to stand still and use my eyes and ears. It was the grand reception-day of the week, and many were the great people who thronged the splendid rooms. It was not long before I heard the name of Bishop Gardiner, and I looked with eagerness to see this man who had held such an influence over my life. In he came, in his rich churchman's habit, all smiling civility. I believe I should have hated him at first sight if I had not known who he was. He was followed by Father Simon, his chaplain, whose viper face I knew in an instant. He advanced at once to pay his court to the duchess, and no one bowed lower than he or was more fulsome in his flattery.
"Well, my lord, and how goes on your favorite pursuit?" asked the Duchess in her ringing voice.
"To what does your grace allude?" asked the bishop.
"Oh, the turning out of nuns and monks. We all know you like to hunt them as a warrener does rabbits, only your ferrets are learned doctors and divines."
I saw Father Simon's face darken at this gibe, but the bishop only smiled.
"'Tis said the chantries are next to go," continued the Duchess, in the same gay voice. "I much wonder, my lord, what kind of reception you expect to meet with in Purgatory. Will not the poor souls who are waiting to be sung out of their pains fall upon him who hath so cruelly deprived them of their means of escape?"
"Let me remind you, my love, that these are hardly fit subjects for jesting," said the Duke, gently. "My lord, have you seen his majesty within a day. His physician, Dr. Butts, tells me he is ill at ease."
Thus he turned the talk into another channel, while my mistress, though she seemed to pout for a moment, soon recovered her gayety, and began again chatting on indifferent subjects. As for the bishop, he never showed one particle of annoyance either at this time or on other similar occasions. But "what was fristed was not forgotten," as old ladies used to say, and he made the sweet lady pay dearly for her gibes: marry, 'twas through no good will of his that she did not atone for them with her life.
When the company were gone, my mistress bade me sit down to the instrument and play and sing to divert her and her husband. I did my best, and her Grace was pleased to praise me very highly, saying that my voice was one of the finest she had ever heard.
"The voice is not the only beauty," said the Duke. "Mistress Corbet sings with expression, without which the best voice is 'but as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal,' as the apostle says. What other songs do you know?"
I told him not many, as I had learned in the convent, where we had none but sacred music. He then bade some one fetch a book of French Psalms from which I had been playing, and he was pleased to join his voice with me in some of them.
"These psalms are greatly sung in France," said he. "One hears them both in palace and cottage. I would some one would do as much for the psalms in English, that they might replace the ribaldry one hears every where."
"It may be done some time—who knows?" said the Duchess. "Go you abroad to-night, my sweet lord?"
"I must needs do so, since the king commands," he answered. "And what will you do?"
"Stay at home to play with my babes, like a good housewife," said she, with a smile, "and perhaps to visit poor Mistress Patience, whom I have not seen for two days."
"I perceived the old lady was not at table."
"No, she is ill at ease, poor soul. I think not she will live long."
"It is hardly to be wished. Good-by, then, sweetheart."
When the duke had gone, his wife rose and bidding us attend her, she went first to the nursery, where I saw her two little sons, of four and five years, lovely buds of that noble stem, destined to be blighted in their earliest bloom by the dreadful sweating sickness. They were sweet, well-governed children, overjoyed to see their beautiful mother, and coming with shy grace to speak to me when bade to do so. Presently the elder boy asked his mother when sister Frances was coming home, and I then learned for the first time that the duke had an unmarried daughter by his third wife, Margaret of England, who was now visiting some lady about the court.
I was in a hurry for supper to come now, hoping I might see in the new tutor my old friend and playmate, and then telling myself how silly I was to prepare such a disappointment. But I was not destined to be disappointed. The Duke being away, the whole family sat down to supper together, and the very first sight convinced me that Walter Corbet was before me. He had grown older, of course, and looked thin and worn, but there was the old expression of peaceful firmness and resolution in his dark eyes and in the lines of his mouth. I do not think he glanced at me, till the Duchess addressed some kind word to him, when he looked up and our eyes met. Even then, he did not recognize me at once, and no great wonder, as he had not seen me since I was eight years old; yet his eyes lingered on my face with puzzled expression, which the Duchess observing, (as she always saw every thing,) said:
"Master Corbet, my new gentlewoman hath the same name as yourself and comes also from the West Country. It may be you are of kin."
I could not but smile at his look of bewilderment, and seeing he was still uncertain, I touched with my finger a small but deep scar on my brow, which I had gotten in one of our childish expeditions after nuts.
"Surely!" said he. "This cannot be my little cousin Loveday, who used to live at Peckham Hall with my mother?"
"Even so," I answered, as my mistress's eye and smile gave me leave to speak. "I knew you in a moment; but then you are changed less than I."
"And you are little Loveday," said he, as though he could hardly believe it even yet.
"Not so very little at present," said the Duchess. "You must make acquaintance, since you are old friends and kinsfolk."
This was all that passed at that time. The evening was spent in reading aloud to my mistress and playing of cards, about which I knew nothing till she taught me, and which I never learned to like. The Duchess, not being very well, went to bed early, and I waited on her to her chamber and helped her to undress, as was part of my duty. My service, however, was not much more than nominal, as she had an old maid-servant who had attended her since she was a child. She then dismissed me, and I went to bed, feeling more tired than I had ever done in my life.
Next morning, I was astir in good time. I had been used, of late, to read a portion in the Bible every morning, and, as the sun shone pleasantly into the gallery, and my room was something dark, I ventured to walk up and down there, while reading in St. John's Gospel. I had not done so long, when a door opened, and the old lady I had heard called Mistress Patience, put her head out.
"Can I do aught for you, madam?" I asked, seeing her looking as if she would call somebody.
"Oh, I would not trouble you, Mistress—I forget your name," answered the old lady. "I was but looking for the woman who helps me to dress; I am rheumatic, as you see. She is long in coming, I think, or else I am earlier than my wont."
"It has not yet gone six by the church-bell," said I. "But, Mistress Patience, please let me help you; I shall love to do so."
"Nay, child, 'tis no office for such as thou—thou a gentlewoman."
"I am a Christian," I answered; "and what should such do but help each other? Besides, I shall like it. It will remind me of the time when I used to help dear Sister Sacristine, in the convent. Please allow me."
The old lady consented, and I helped her to dress. She was much crippled with rheumatism, and I feared hurting her; but I suppose I did not, for she said I was a deft maid.
"And what book have you there?" said she, as I took up the volume I had laid on the table.
I told her.
"What, you are an heretic, then?" said she, sharply.
"Nay, madam, why should you think so?" I answered.
"Because you read the Bible, like that snake-in-the-grass that brought my dear mistress to her doom. Away, I have naught to do with heretics. They murdered my dear mistress."
"But, dear madam, listen a moment," said I. "Don't you know that both Luther and Tyndale wrote against the king's divorce of Queen Katherine, as did many others whom men call heretics? For myself, I do not pretend to judge of state matters, being nothing but a simple maid, but my heart hath ever been with your mistress. And you know it was the great Cardinal who first helped on the matter of the divorce. I have heard say that the queen herself accused him of blowing the coal betwixt her and the king."
"So she did, so she did, poor soul!" said the old lady, relenting a little. "But, oh, my maiden, for your soul's sake, beware of heresy, and of reading and judging in matters too high for you. It is that which is drawing down vengeance on this realm."
I soothed her, as well as I could, and, getting her comfortably seated in her great chair, I fetched my "Imitation," and read to her a few minutes.
"There is the bell, Mistress Corbet," said she, as a bell rang in the gallery. "You must go, but you will come again, won't you?"
"Yes, indeed!" said I, venturing to kiss her forehead; whereat she gave me a smile and her blessing.
As I have said, breakfast was not at that time the serious matter it has since become. I had been bidden to repair to the small dining-room for mine, and did so. There, to my great joy, I found Walter, eating his bread and milk, with a book open by his basin, as he used to do at the hall. It may be guessed that we found plenty to say to each other. He told me that the hall was shut up and empty, save for the old servants who staid to look after it. Sir John Lambert, with whom he had studied, had gone abroad to save his life, being accused of heresy and he, himself, had had a narrow escape from the clutches of Father Barnaby.
"I know not how he let me go, only that he could not find in his heart to burn so good a Latinist," said he, smiling. "When my kind friend went abroad, I betook myself to my parish of Coombe Ashton, and there I have lived till now. But I have left my cure in good hands, and am come up to London, for a time, to study the Greek and Hebrew to more advantage. The Duke of Suffolk hath kindly given me a place in his household, where I hope to serve well both my earthly and Heavenly Master. But now tell me of yourself. Where have you been, all these years?"
"'Tis a long tale," said I. "I can only give you the outlines thereof," which I did, only saying naught of the cause which sent me from London to Dartford.
"But, Walter," I added ('twas a wonder to see how easily we went back to the old names), "how does it happen that you have not heard all this before? Did you not care enough for your old playmate to ask your mother about her?"
Walter's face clouded, and I saw that I had touched on a tender chord.
"My mother and myself have seen very little of each other of late," said he, sadly. "You know she was somewhat arbitrary in her disposition," (I thought I did, indeed), "and she was greatly displeased with me for taking up with the new learning, and, as she said, abetting Sir John in the destroying of souls. She made the price of her blessing the abandonment of my most dear and inward convictions of truth, and as I could not comply, she even cast me off and disinherited me, so far as it was in her power to do so. Think you, I was wrong not to give way?"
"Whoso loveth his father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me," said I.
His face brightened in a moment, and he said, in a low tone:
"Then you, too, are a reader of the Evangel. Where did you learn that?"
I told him, adding, "I do wish you knew the Davis family. They are the best people in the world."
"I know Master Hall and his wife, at least to speak to," said he. "She seems, indeed, like a most generous woman, such as the wise man calls a crown to her husband."
"But did your mother then disinherit you?" I asked.
"So far as it was in her power. Sir Edward left me certain lands which were not entailed, and a sum of money, and I had a small inheritance from my own father, so I have more than enough for all my wants—except books," he added, smiling; then sadly again: "I cared not for the inheritance, but it was hard to want a mother's last blessing."
"It was, indeed. But what do you here?"
"The duke hath given me a place as master, to teach the young gentlemen their academe. His grace intimated to me that I might do as much or as little as I would, but I mean to earn his protection, which is of great value to me."
The entrance of Mistress Mandeville put an end to our talk for this time. The day was spent much as the last had been, save that we went abroad on the river with our mistress. She was fond of the water, and went out almost every day, and as I liked it also, while as Mistress Mandeville was terribly afraid of it, I came to be her usual companion in these expeditions.
Kind as were my master and mistress, and much as I learned to love them, it was a trying life, and one that I should never covet for a daughter of mine. It was a fatiguing, and yet an idle, life. Oh, how my fingers used to ache for something wherewith to busy themselves, during the hours when I stood by my mistress's chair, and how weary grew my ears of the endless tittle-tattle of compliment and repartee. Sometimes, indeed, we had talk which was worth hearing. The Duke entertained all the great scholars of the day, and I heard many discussions which made me forget all my weariness and disgust.
One day I had the great pleasure of seeing my old friend, Dr. Hooper, and my lady, with her usual kindness, hearing that we were acquainted, made an opportunity for us to talk together. He told me he had seen Master Davis's family the day before, and that they were all well.
"And you, my daughter, how fares it with you?" he asked, gently. "I do not mean in health, since your face speaks for itself, but how fares it with your soul? Do you keep your lamp trimmed and burning in the midst of all this splendor, and yourself as one who waiteth for the bridegroom?"
"Indeed, I try to," I answered, feeling the tears very near mine eyes. "But I do find it hard, many times, to collect my thoughts and keep them where they should be. My prayers seem forced, and as though they did not get out of the room."
Dr. Hooper smiled. "They have no need to do so, perhaps, since He to whom they are addressed is Himself in the room. But tell me, do you at such times give up and forbear to pray for that time?"
"Sometimes I have done so," I answered, blushing.
"And do you not find prayer and meditation all the harder the next time for such omissions?" he asked.
I confessed that it was so.
"And so it will ever be," said he. "Believe me, daughter, the times when we need prayers most is when we enjoy them least. Then is the time to seek the mercy seat more earnestly than ever, and not to leave it till we have an answer of peace. Even though your prayers are but matters of simple obedience, they are of infinite value to your own soul. Tell me, is there not some charitable work that you can do to keep the springs of love fresh in your heart?"
I thought of Mistress Patience, whom I had somewhat neglected of late, excusing myself on the ground of having so little time to myself, and because she was often fretful and hard to please.
"Yes!" I answered. "I might do such work if I chose—but—the truth is, Dr. Hooper, in the multitude of business and distractions, I have forgotten God, and He I fear hath forgotten me."
"Do you not believe that, dear maid," said Dr. Hooper, earnestly. "He hath not forgotten you, but even now waits for you to return, and holds open the gate that you may enter. Go you to Him before you sleep, in penitence and prayer, and having confessed your sins and begged for pardon and cleansing, believe that you have them, and go on serving your Heavenly Master to the best of your ability, not expecting thereby to win salvation, since that has already been purchased for you, but that you may showy your faith by your works, and set forward the kingdom of your Master."
This is not a record of religious experience; but I may just say that I followed the good man's advice, and found peace in so doing.
The next morning, I was up early, and while dressing I tried to think of some way to make my peace with Mistress Patience, who, I knew, had felt the loss of those attentions which I had begun by giving her. At last a plan struck me, which I hastened to put into execution. I found the old lady dressed, and sitting in her great chair.
"So, Mistress Corbet, I have not seen you for long," said she, drawing herself up; "but I am nobody now—only a poor old woman whom nobody cares for. I thought at first you were going to be like a daughter to me, but I see how it is."
"Now you discourage me," said I, feeling her reproach all the more that I deserved it. "I had come to ask a great favor, and now I am afraid."
"And what favor may that be?" she asked me, rather suspiciously, but yet relenting a little, as I thought.
"Even that you will teach me to knit," I answered. "My mistress says that you know how to knit hosen like those which come from Spain, and that you taught her mother."
"So I did, so I did," she answered; "and a sweet creature she was. How well I remember when my Lord Willowby came a suitor for her hand;" and therewith she went off in a long description of the wedding, and bedding, and so forth, which kept her amused till it was time for me to go.
"But you will teach me to knit?" said I, as I rose to leave her.
"That I will, that I will, dear maiden. I will hunt up my knitting-pins to-day, and will show you the motion, and how to put up the stitches. Just wheel my chair near to yonder cabinet, if you will, and I will see what I can find."