And so I left her happy in rummaging her drawers.
The next morning, she had found her pins, and gave me a lesson in knitting, over which we became quite good friends again. By degrees she opened her mind to me, and I found out what was the trouble which embittered her life. It seems that Queen Katherine, in her will, had provided that some one should make a pilgrimage to our Lady of Walsingham, for the benefit of her soul. This had never been done, and the poor, faithful old servant was eating her heart with grief lest her mistress was still suffering in Purgatory on account of this omission.
"I would gladly have gone myself," said she, "but I had a broken leg; and now there is no more any holy shrine at Walsingham. Oh, me! Oh, me! That my poor mistress, who would have gone on foot to Rome to save the soul of a poor beggar, should suffer for want of such a charity as that."
She wept, and I could not forbear weeping with her, and trying to comfort her.
"Dear Mistress Patience," said I; "Queen Katherine was a Christian woman and trusted in her Saviour, who is all pity and compassion. Think you he loves her less than you do?"
"No," said she, wonderingly, "I suppose not."
"Would he not love her just as much more than you, as he is greater than you—that is, infinitely?"
"Yes, belike He does. What then?"
"Then—do not be angry, dear lady—but would He leave her in such a dreadful place, because some one did not do what was impossible. The Scripture saith that his blood cleanseth us from all sin. What need then of any further cleansing?"
She looked doubtfully on me, and I had to leave her at that time; but the next morning, as I took my knitting, she said, abruptly:
"Mistress Loveday, is what you said yesterday—about cleansing from sin—is that in the Bible? I mean the true Latin Bible, not that which the heretics have put forth."
"It is, indeed," I answered.
She sighed. "I wish I could read it," said she; "but I was never good at Latin, and now my eyes are failed, so I can scarce read English."
"I will read it for you, dear madam," said I. "I have a Latin Bible, and I will read it into English for you, if you will."
"Do so," she answered.
I fetched my book, and read to her such places as bore on the subject, as long as I had time. When I was obliged to go away, she laid her hand on my arm, and fixing her eyes on mine, she said, with touching earnestness:
"You are a good maid and a fine scholar. You would not deceive me?"
"Not for the whole world," I told her.
"Then tell me—are all these things in the English Bible?"
"They are indeed, dear madam, and much more."
"I would I had one, that I could see for myself," said she.
"Mine is fine print—I fear you could not read it," said I. And then, as a thought struck me: "My lady hath given me leave to visit my friends to-day, and I think I may be able to bring you the New Testament in fair, large print."
Her face brightened, and then fell again. "But that may bring you into trouble," said she.
"I think not," I answered. "At all events, I will see what can be done."
She consented at last, giving me a gold piece to pay for the book, and to buy a fairing for myself. As I said, my mistress had given me leave to go spend the day with my friends, and Mistress Curtis sent one of the men to attend me to Master Hall's, where I purposed to go first. I had been used to run back and forth between his house and Master Davis's, but I was now a lady in a great house, so I must needs have a blue-coated serving man at my heels.
I found them all well and overjoyed to see me, but methought Master Hall was more sober than his wont, and Margaret's fair brow had a shade of care. When: we were alone together, I asked her if any ill fortune had befallen.
"Nothing as yet," she answered, "but, Loveday, we are living, as it were, on the edge of a quicksand which may any day open and engulf us. It hath somehow become known that my husband has been engaged in the printing and selling of English Bibles, or at least so we think. We are beset with spies. One of our best workmen, James Wells, hath disappeared, and we can get no news of him."
"He may have been murdered in some street brawl," said I; "you know there have been many of late."
"True; and he may have turned informer, perhaps by force of the rack—who knows? I am glad you came to-day, for nobody knows when we shall meet again."
She looked about her, went to the door to see that it was fast, and then whispered in mine ear: "In a week or two, perhaps in a few days, my husband will go to the Low Countries, and I shall follow him as soon as I can settle up our matters here."
This was news, indeed, and the worst I had heard for many a day. I could not forbear weeping over it, and Margaret joined her tears to mine.
"But we must not spend our last meeting in tears," said she, presently, drying her eyes. "Tell me, dear maid, how it fares with you and what you are doing?"
With that, we fell into our old strain of talk, and it was a wonder to me to see how she seemed to forget her own concerns in mine, when I told her of Mrs. Patience.
"Alas, poor soul. She shall have what she wants, but not for hire or reward."
And going to one of the secret recesses, of which the house was full, she brought forth a fairly printed New Testament and a Psalter.
"Give these to the poor lady and bid her bestow the price in charity," said she. "My husband will be only too glad to give the bread of life to one more perishing soul. But conceal them carefully. I would not have you brought into jeopardy. Your cousin, Sir Walter, tells me you are in great favor with your good lady."
"She is, indeed, good—far beyond my deserts," I answered: "I never saw a sweeter young creature. She hath but one fault, and I sometimes fear that may bring her into trouble. She cannot refrain her tongue from any gibe or jest that comes to her. Bishop Gardiner comes often to our house, and never, I think, without their having an encounter of wits, in which he is sure to come by the worst. I like not the way he looks at her, and believe, though he says not a word but of the most honeyed courtesy, he doth cherish in his heart both anger and revenge."
"It is a pity," said Margaret. "He is a wicked and cruel man—one of the true Pharisees which Scripture says do shut up the Kingdom of Heaven, not entering himself nor suffering others to do so. He is a dangerous enemy."
"I know I would not like him for mine, but I am too insignificant to draw his notice."
I dined with Margaret, and then we went together to her father's house, she giving me a caution not to speak of what she had told me about her husband affairs, specially before Philippa.
"She would surely never betray you," said I, startled.
Margaret shook her head.
"She might not be able to help herself. I trust nobody who goes to confession."
We found all well, and the children came near eating me up in the warmth of their welcome. I had brought my knitting, and Mistress Davis was at once on fire to learn the art, so I taught her as far as it could be learned in one lesson. I had made a little pair of red hosen for my pupil Helen, and great was the wonderment over them, for knitted hose were even mere rare then than now. The only ones ever seen were brought out of Spain and sold for great prices.
Philippa was in a generous mood, and full of curiosity about my new way of living. I was willing to gratify her as far as was discreet, but she wanted to hear more, and began asking me questions about the family.
"They say the Duke and Duchess do not well agree, and that he reproaches her with her wastefulness and love of dress, even before visitors," said she.
"Nonsense," I answered. "The Duke is the very mirror and pink of courtesy to all, and especially to his wife."
"But is she extravagant?" persisted Philippa.
I hardly knew how to answer, for, in truth, I had thought my mistress more expenseful in her habits than was discreet at all times, even with such a princely income as the Duke's. Philippa went on, without waiting for a reply.
"I have heard that her grace never wears the same gown twice, and that she hath as many sets of jewels as there are days in the year. Is that true, think you?"
"I don't know; I never counted my mistress's jewels," I answered rather shortly, for I was vexed and embarrassed. "Take care, dear aunt, you have dropped a stitch. Let me take it up for you."
"But you must have the chance to see all her fine things," continued Philippa. "Do you not take care of her jewels?"
"No; she always puts them away herself."
"Is the Lady Frances at home?" was the next question.
"No; she returns next week."
"Folk say she hath the king's temper," observed Philippa. "They say that she and her step-mother do not agree, and that when the Duchess cuffed her for her impertinence, she struck back and gave her mother a black eye. Was that so, think you?"
"I don't believe it. I know nothing about my Lady Frances's relations with her mother, and if I did, I would not tell it out of the family."
"Why, what harm would it do?" asked Philippa.
"It would be treason to those whose bread she eats, and under whose protection she lives," said Mistress Davis, with emphasis. "And Loveday is right to refuse. There can be no greater or baser act of treachery, than for a servant in any station to tattle of the private concerns of her employers."
Philippa pouted. "She told the children how the little lord rode his pony in the tilt-yard."
"That was but child's play," said I, "very different from what you have asked. How would you like to have some one tell of all that happened in your family, supposing you had one?"
"Any how, a great many people do it, and think no harm."
"They do harm, whether they think it or not," answered Mistress Davis. "Many a scandal and shame grows out of such tittle-tattle."
Philippa was silent for awhile, but her curiosity was too lively to allow her to sulk, as usual, and she presently began to ask me about the last court fashions, in gowns and headgear. I was willing to do her a pleasure, though surprised at her interest in such a matter, for she had always affected a great indifference to dress. I had observed, indeed, a change in her own attire. She no longer wore her everlasting black gown, but was becomingly dressed in blue damask; and her veil and close coif were exchanged for a becoming hood. When she left the room, I noticed the change to Mistress Davis, who smiled, somewhat mischievously.
"Yes, she came to me not long since, and, saying she thought it her duty to submit to my wishes more than she had done, she asked my counsel about her attire. I have my own ideas about what the change portends, but I shall say nothing."
Master Davis now coming in, the subject was dropped, and did not come up again.
image012
AT THE GREAT HOUSE.
WHEN I returned to Suffolk House, which I took care to do in good season, I bestowed my book of the New Testament in my room, and the next morning I carried it to Mistress Patience, who received it with real pleasure. I read to her a little in the beginning of St. Matthew's Gospel, and left her turning over the leaves and spelling out a verse here and there. She would by no means take back the price of the book, but bade me bestow it in charity, if I would not spend it for mine own pleasure.
It was still early, when I went down stairs. I carried with me two books, one of songs, the other of lessons for the organ, which Master Hall had given me. I was playing one of these lessons with great pains, and stopping now and then, for it was somewhat difficult, when I heard the door open. Supposing it might be Mistress Mandeville, I did not speak till I had finished my lesson; when I said, without looking round:
"There, Mistress Mandeville, how do you like that?" (We were always good friends, though never were two women who had less in common.)
"It is not Mistress Mandeville, but I like it very much, indeed!" said a pleasant voice.
And, turning quickly, I beheld a young lady whom I had never seen before. She was, at that time, about fourteen, very pretty, even at that unformed age, with the yellow gold hair of her Tudor race, a fair complexion and merry eyes, which had yet a spark in them promising a choleric disposition, if it were not checked in time. I guessed at once she was Lady Frances Brandon, the Duke's youngest daughter, and was in some confusion.
"Nay, do not rise, but play me something else," said she. "I suppose you are my mother's new gentlewoman, of whom I have heard?"
"Yes, madam."
"And I am Lady Frances, and I love music above all things," said she. "I never heard any woman touch the organ as you do. I like it far better than spinet or clavichord, or any of their race, don't you?"
I told her yes, for sacred and solemn music, but for that which was lighter in character, I preferred the clavichord. She bade me play something else, and I obeyed, not knowing what else to do. She stood by in silence, drinking in the sounds with that fixed attention which is so flattering to the performer, and shows the real lover of music. Then I ventured to ask her if she did not play herself?
"Oh, yes, a little, but not like you. I shall ask my mother to let you give me lessons."
Then, at my asking, she sat down to the virginal and played a simple lesson, not very accurately, but with true feeling.
"There, what say you?" when she had finished. "Shall I ever make a player?"
"I see no reason why you should not," I answered. "You have but to cultivate correctness in tone and touch to make a very good player, but these last are essential."
She colored a little, and then said, with a half laugh:
"You are no courtier, Mistress—Corbet—you should have praised my playing to the skies, and sworn that you were listening to the music of the spheres. That is what I am used to."
"Perhaps that is the trouble with your playing," I could not forbear saying; whereat she laughed again.
"Worse and worse. Why you are downright Dunstable with a witness; but I like you all the better," she added. "I think you and I shall be good friends. Say, Mistress Corbet, will you give me lessons on the organ?"
"Surely, Lady Frances, if your mother is willing," said I. "It must be as she says, you know."
"Of course. Do you know, Mistress Corbet, a lady tried to make me think I owed no obedience to my step-dame, because the king is mine uncle—what do you think?"
"I think you are the most imprudent young lady that ever talked to a stranger," was my thought, but I said—
"I am not the proper person to advise you, my Lady Frances, but if you will know what mine opinion is, I think that the precept—'Children obey your parents in the Lord,' comes from one greater than all the kings and princes of the earth. I think also that any young maid, gentle or simple, might be thankful to have such a step-dame as my mistress."
"And so do I," she answered warmly. "And I won't be set against her by any of them."
At this moment the door was opened by a severe-looking lady whom I had never seen before. Starch was not used in those days, or I might think she had been fed on nothing else since she was born, so stiffly did she carry herself.
"My Lady Frances, what are you doing here?" said she, in that kind of tone which excites rebellion in the heart of the best child that ever lived. "Methinks you forget what is due to your rank in talking thus familiarly with this—you are her Grace's chamber-woman if I mistake not!" she added, turning to me in a way that made her words a downright insult.
I simply courtesied.
"How do you know whether I was talking familiarly or not?" demanded Lady Frances, saucily enough. "Were you at your old trick of eavesdropping?"
The gouvernante, for such she was, colored through all her rouge and powder, but she deigned no reply, save to bid Lady Frances follow her. But I think she kept her not long, for when I went to my mistress, I found Lady Frances kneeling by her side, playing with the tassels of her girdle and coaxingly preferring some request.
"So, Mistress Corbet, what mischief have you and this child been hatching up between you?" asked her Grace. "Here she is begging and beseeching that you may give her lessons, she having, as she says, fallen in love with your playing. What say you? Will you take such a troublesome office upon yourself as the instruction of a perverse child?" she added, pulling her step-daughter's ear.
I told her I would willingly give Lady Frances all the help in my power if her Grace could spare me the time.
"Well, well, my Frances, we will talk to your father, and see what he has to say. But mind, Loveday, I am to have you to read aloud to me, and attend me on the water all the same. 'Tis sheer cruelty to take poor Mandeville into a boat."
I could not but think my time was likely to be fully occupied, but I never was afraid of work.
By degrees, I drifted more and more into the position of governess to my Lady Frances. My Lady Challoner, who had never got on well with her charge—I never saw the human being that liked her—went away, and another elderly lady, Mrs. Wardour, the widow of a brave soldier, took her place. She was a very discreet lady, who knew well how to control herself, and who soon won the respect of her charge. Lady Frances was docile enough with her, and soon learned to be ashamed of the tempest of passionate anger which I used to think Lady Challoner took delight in provoking, that she might have whereof to complain to the girl's father. My Lady Frances was different from many high-tempered persons in this, that she did not always think some one else was to blame for her outbreaks, but laid the fault where it belonged, on her own choleric temper. She and I got on very well, and she improved so fast that it was a pleasure to teach her.
I still read to her Grace whenever she was at home of an evening, and attended her in her excursions upon the river, but I was excused from standing behind her chair, and another gentlewoman took my place. It was on our return from one of these water excursions that an event took place of which we thought little at the time, but which was destined to have important consequences for us both. We had landed at our usual place, when we saw a couple of burly, rude water-men threatening and bullying a pale man in black, who looked like a scholar of some sort. Even as we came up, one of them struck him a blow which staggered and nearly knocked him down.
"Shame, shame!" rang out the dear voice of the Duchess, who was not one of those over-prudent people who can never do a generous action without thinking about it till the occasion is past. "Is that the way for Englishmen to treat a stranger and a poor man? Let him alone, you brute!"
For the bully, furious with anger, had again raised his hand. His companion, somewhat cooler, and seeing the Duke's water-men, caught his arm and began to explain—
"He is no true man, my lady, but a beggarly Frenchman and a spy!—"
"No, no spy!" muttered the man, in imperfect English. He reeled as he spoke, and would have fallen into the water, had not one of our own serving men caught him. The two rogues, seeing with whom they had to deal, began to comprehend that the matter might end badly for them, and slunk away in a hurry.
"Poor man, is he hurt?" asked the Duchess, compassionately. "Speak to him, Mistress Corbet; I dare say he knows Latin."
I did so, but his voice was so faint that I could not catch his answer.
"I believe the man is starved, my lady," said John Symonds, who was supporting him. "He is naught but a bag of bones. Some beef and strong-water would be the best remedy for his ail."
"With your Grace's leave, I will take this poor man in charge," said a well-known voice, and Master Hall lifted his cap to the Duchess. "He hath but fainted, as I think. Loveday, have you your scenting bottle about you?"
The Duchess looked surprised enough to hear this strange merchant call me by name. I handed him the bottle of strong perfume, which ladies then as now carried in their packets, but the poor sufferer had already opened his eyes.
"Food—food!" said he. "I starve."
By this time a crowd was gathered.
"Please your Grace to move on," said Master Hall, courteously. "I will care for the poor man, and bring you an account of him, if you will."
"Do so, sir; and we shall be your debtor," said the Duchess, with the queenly grace which was natural to her. "See that he is comfortably bestowed and wants for nothing. We take the expense on ourself."
She put two or three gold pieces into Master Hall's hand, and we moved on. When we were in the house, she sent for me, and asked me, with some little sharpness, who was that man who called me so familiarly by my name. I told her he was the son-in-law of my good friend, Master Davis, and the husband of my dearest friend.
"Ay," said she, "I heard you call him Master Hall, but is he the man who is noted for selling seditious and heretical books?"
"I dare to say, madam, that he never sold a seditious book in his life!" I answered. "As to heresy, 'tis not so easy to tell in these days what is heresy and what is not."
"And that is true!" said she, relapsing into her usual tone of kindness. "But, Loveday, your friend is in danger. I heard his name mentioned last night as a principal dealer in forbidden books, and if Gardiner gets his claws upon him, you know what his case will be."
"I know, madam!" I answered. "But I trust he may be delivered from the power of that bad man."
"And so do I, but a word to the wise is enough. Mayhap your cousin, being a scholar, will have occasion to go to this Master Hall's shop to buy something. And, now I think of it, Frances tells me she wants a new book of lessons. Doth he deal in music?"
I told her it was a great part of his trade, and she bade me tell my cousin, in case he went out, to go thither and buy what was needed, and also some paper and pens for herself. With that, she dismissed me, and I went at once to find out Walter, and told him what I had heard. Walter looked very grave.
"Her Grace is right," said he. "There is no time to lose. I will go at once."
It may be guessed that I spent an anxious day. My fancy pictured Margaret in all sorts of dreadful predicaments, and imagined the distress of Master Davis and his family. What a relief it was, and yet what a start it gave me that evening, as I was reading to the Duchess and Lady Frances, to hear the gentleman usher say:
"A merchant of the city, Master Hall, hath brought some books and music, and desires an audience of your Grace upon business."
"Have him in, have him in!" said the Duchess. "Good even to you, good Master Hall!" as he so entered. "What news of our poor client, whom you kindly took in charge?"
"He is like to do well, your Grace," answered Master Hall. "All he needed was food. He told me he had not eaten in three days."
"Alas! poor man. Did he tell you what brought him to such straits?"
"Ay, madam. He is a poor Walloon minister, who had come to this country to seek a brother, whom he heard was very ill in London. His brother died, and he himself met with an accident which disabled him for a time. He spent all his money, and for past few days hath been absolutely starving. He says he would have died, but for the charity of a poor woman who keeps a very small eating-house near the water side. But now the good dame herself is turned out of house and home by a grasping landlord, who hopes to make a few more pence of rent, and is herself an object of charity."
"I hope, with all my heart, the next tenant will cheat him of his rent altogether," said the Duchess, with her usual outspoken freedom. "Who are these Walloons, Master Hall, and where do they live?"
"They are a people of French origin, an' it please your Grace, and live mostly about Leinburg, Liege, Namur, and the parts thereto adjacent. They are an industrious, thriving race, and much given to learning as well as trade. I have often sojourned among them when I have been abroad, and have ever found them kind and hospitable to strangers."
"So much the more need that strangers should be hospitable to them," remarked the Duchess. "And of what religion are they?"
"They are Protestants, madam, holding by the Augsburg Confession. * This gentleman is one of their clergy."
* After Flanders fell under the power of Philip Second, a large number of Walloons emigrated to Holland and afterward to the New Netherlands. They are, in fact, the ancestors of the Dutch Reformed Church.
"So! And what would you advise to be done for this poor man and his old landlady? Speak freely," added the Duchess, "we need fear no spies here."
"Since your Grace will have me be so bold, I would recommend that the poor woman be established once more in a house where she can carry on her business. A small payment in advance would enable her to rent a much better stand than before, and then Monsieur Claude could lodge with her till he is sufficiently recovered to return home."
"That sounds like a good scheme!" said the Duchess, thoughtfully: "And how much would be required for all? I mean to pay this poor woman's first quarter and Monsieur Claude's traveling expenses!"
Master Hall named the sum, and the Duchess bade me take the money from her cabinet, and herself put it into his hand, with that sweet, graceful manner which made every such act on her part a personal favor.
"And now, let us see what books you have brought," said she. "Nothing seditious, I trust, since Mistress Corbet hath given her personal security that you do not deal in such matters, and it were a pity to shame her."
"There is no fear of her being shamed by me!" said Master Hall. "At least so far as that goes—but knowing your Grace to be fond of prints and the like, I have ventured to bring two or three, and also some music books, if your Grace will accept so small an offering."
"In truth, Master Hall, we shall be your debtors!" answered the Duchess. "My daughter was even now petitioning for new music. Frances, let me hear you make your acknowledgments to Master Hall for the pleasure he hath given us."
Lady Frances did so in her usual pretty, frank fashion. Master Hall answered a question or two about the prints, and was just upon taking his leave, when the Duke entered. There was an unusual cloud on his brow, and he looked both grave and angry.
"What gear is here?" he asked. "Ha, my good friend, Master Hall, this is a fortunate chance. I have business with you, and was about to send for you. Leave the ladies with their books, and come you to my cabinet. This is a matter that brooks no delay?"
I saw Master Hall change color for a moment, and then he was himself again. As he bade me good-night, he whispered in my ear:
"Loveday, if I am not seen again, take my love and blessing to Margaret."
It may be believed I had no stomach for music that night, and the Duchess seeing or guessing that something was the matter, dismissed me at an early hour.
The next morning, she sent for me to come to her at least an hour earlier than usual. When I entered her dressing room, I found the Duke there before me.
"Mistress Corbet," said he, after he had himself closed the door, and made sure there were no eavesdroppers, "my wife tells me that you are a model of discretion, and can keep secrets."
"Her Grace praises me too highly," said I, wondering what could be coming next. "I may venture to say that I am no tale-pyet at the least."
"I trust not, for in truth I have to put into your hands a somewhat weighty matter. A warrant will be issued this morning to take your friends, Master Hall and his wife, for heresy, and for publishing and selling heretical books."
The world seemed to turn round with me, but I did not altogether lose my wits.
"I must warn them!" were the words which seemed to come of themselves from my lip.
"There is no need!" said his Grace. "They have already escaped, and I have good hope that they are by this time beyond reach of pursuit."
"May God bless your Grace!" said I.
"Nay, you are not to think that I had any thing to do with the matter, and it is of this I would warn you!" said he. "But now of warnings that concern your own safety. Had you any books or other things with your name on at Mistress Hall's?"
"No, your Grace?"
"That is well; but have you had any communings with her, so as to know the secrets of the business? Speak freely, maiden. Trust me, I have no wish but to stand your friend."
Thus reassured, I told his Grace that I had never had aught to do with Master Hall's business, save that I had helped to correct the proofs of Erasmus his Paraphrase and Colloquies.
"There was no harm in that. But have you bought no books of them which might bring you into trouble if known?"
"I have not bought any, your Grace," I answered. "Mistress Patience did greatly want an English Bible, and Margaret did give me a Testament and also a Psalter for her use, which I gave her, and which are now in her room."
"Mistress Patience!" they both exclaimed together.
And the Duke added with some sternness, "Beware what you say, Mistress. I have ever thought Mistress Patience the most devoted of Papists."
"She thinks herself so still, your Grace!" said I. And then I told him the matter from first to last.
The Duke could not forbear smiling.
"'Twas a deed of true Christian charity, and most deftly managed!" said he. "But yet it might make matters worse were it known. Tell me, does this old dame go to confession?"
"No, your Grace. She is not able to walk the length of the gallery. Her strength is greatly failed of late, and I think not she will live long."
"And does any priest have access to her?"
"No one, as I think, but my cousin Walter, your Grace's chaplain," (for Walter had been promoted to this place some time since, and had preached in the chapel more than once.) "Walter has prayed with her two or three times, so she has told me, for I see not as much of her, now that I live in my Lady Frances's apartment."
"That may be safe enough!" said he, pulling his beard as was his wont when he was thoughtful. "Hawks will not pick out hawks' eyes, as they say on the Border. Well, Mistress Corbet, I believe you are safe for the present, but I would have you keep your chamber this day. Your mistress will excuse your attendance, and—"
His words received a disagreeable interruption. The house had been finished in some haste, and more than once small pieces of plaster had fallen from the ceiling. Now, casting my eyes upward, I saw that directly over where the Duchess was sitting in a low chair, a great portion of the ceiling was parting, and even at that moment falling. There was no time to think. I sprang upon her, pulling her to the floor, and threw myself over her.
At the very moment, I felt a heavy blow on my shoulders and head, and knew no more till I heard a familiar voice say, in a tone of utmost anguish:
"Loveday, Loveday—my darling, for my sake, look up!"
Then I opened mine eyes, and saw my kinsman standing over me, a lancet in his hand, while the blood was streaming from my arm. There were others about me, but I saw no one else.
"Her Grace!" I managed to say.
"Is quite unhurt, thanks to you, my brave child," said Mistress Curtis. "You have saved her life."
"Then all is well," said I, sinking back. That was all I cared to know. For days I lay in great danger, but not in any great suffering. Sometimes I recognized those about me, and sometimes not, but I suffered little, and lay most of the time in a kind of contented apathy. I had the best attendance, and Master Butts, the king's own physician, came to see me at the Duke's instance. He was a kind, benevolent old man, and much valued by the king, though he made no secret of his leaning to the new doctrine. I understood all his questions, and made a great effort to answer them clearly, but I was conscious all the time that I was talking arrant nonsense. I saw him shake his head as he turned away.
"I fear there is not much hope," I heard him say in a low tone to Mistress Curtis. "If she lives she will be a lunatic, or more likely, an idiot."
I understood his words, and they somehow angered me and roused me from the lethargy which was again stealing over my senses. I made a great effort to collect myself, and said, rather sharply:
"I won't be an idiot! I know what I wish to say, but—" the wrong word was near coming again, but I caught it in time—"I don't say the words I mean."
"Exactly," said the doctor, returning to the bedside, and regarding me with renewed interest. "You know what you mean, all the time you are saying something else. Is that so?"
"Yes, sir," I answered.
"Well, you must be a good girl and do as you are bid, and we will hope for the best. I think, Mistress Curtis, with all respect to Dr. Benton's opinion—" here he bowed to the other physician, who bowed again—"I think it would be well to try our patient with a little more nourishing diet—carefully, and by degrees, Dr. Benton—and watch the effect, and if there is any friend she specially wishes to see—as I think you told me she asked for some one?"
"Yes, she has often asked for her Aunt Davis."
"Then, let her see her aunt, for a few moments at a time, only cautioning her to avoid all exciting topics. In short, Mistress Curtis, you might as well let her have what she wants, poor thing. I do not believe it will make any difference."
These words were spoken at the door, and I was not supposed to hear them, but I did, and knew their import well enough. I was not at all troubled at the idea of dying, but somehow I seemed to have an assurance in my mind that the end was not yet. Mistress Curtis brought me a dainty little mess of frumenty with cream, and having eaten it, I turned over and went to sleep. I must have slept long, for when I waked, it was growing dark. I was quite easy in respect of pain, and my head felt clear. I looked up and thought I was dreaming again, when I saw an upright little figure seated by the side of my bed.
"Aunt Davis, is this really yourself?" I asked, putting out my hand to feel if she were a substantial person.
"Yes, my sweet," tranquilly answered the dear woman. She was never one to give way to fits and transports. "Mistress Curtis gave me leave to sit with you awhile. Do you feel better?"
"I believe I do," I answered. "My head does not ache now, and I can see every thing clearly."
It had been one of my worst annoyances that I saw all objects either double or distorted. My aunt felt my pulse and my forehead, and helped me to a drink. Then she sat down again, and for awhile I was content to lie and look at her. She had grown old a good deal, it seemed to me. And her face had a look of patient endurance which did not use to belong to it.
"Aunt," I asked, presently, "where is Margaret?"
"Safe, as we hope," answered Mistress Davis. "We know the vessel reached the Brill in safety, and once there, Master Hall would be among good friends."
"Thank God—and how is Master Davis?"
"He is well," she answered. "We were in peril for a time, but we have been unmolested."
Satisfied on these points, I lay awhile longer.
Then I asked again, "How is Philippa?"
A smile played over Mistress Davis's face which made her look like herself again.
"Why well, and more than well," said she. "Philippa is married."
"Married!" I exclaimed.
"Even so, and to whom, think you? To no one less than Robert Collins."
"Not Robert Collins—Avice's cousin—not the one who was to have become a brother of the Charter-house," said I.
"Exactly. That very Robert Collins."
I burst out laughing, and somehow that laugh did seem to dissipate the last cloud from my brain.
"But how did it come about? They used to bewail their hard fate together in not being allowed to take the vows."
"Exactly, and they continued to bewail them till it came into their heads that since they could not take those vows they might as well try some others. Moreover, Robert came unexpectedly into quite a good estate by the death of his mother's brother. He thought it his duty to take a wife, as he was the last of his father's family, and so it came about."
"I dare say Philippa persuaded herself all the time that she was making a great sacrifice?"
"Oh, of course; but she was as elated at the prospect as any girl I ever saw, and as much agog for finery, especially for a silk dress. One of the first things that seemed to strike her was that, as Robert was a gentleman of landed estate, she might now wear silk and velvet."
"It must be a comfort to have her—" out of the house, I was going to say, but I changed that phrase to "well settled in life."
My aunt smiled. "I will not deny that it is a relief. She was one of those people of whom you can never guess what they will do next. But she has been more amiable of late, and as Robert is a good-humored man with a will of his own, I hope they may be reasonably happy."
"He would need a good strong will, or none at all, to live peaceably with her," said I. "In all my life, I never saw so perverse a person."
"Well, well, she was a trial, no doubt, but there are others as bad. This is a life of trial, sweetheart, in one way and another. But it grows dark and I must go. I will see you again in a day or two, if you are no worse for this visit."
I slept well that night and awoke feeling quite myself. From that day my recovery was rapid. The doctor said I might soon leave my chamber, and he advised my mistress that it would be well to send me to Master Davis's, for a while, or else to the country, for change of scene.
"How would you like to go down to Master Yates's farm?" asked my aunt one day when we were discussing the matter. "You remember you staid there when you were getting over the ague, before you went to the convent."
"Then the old people are still living?" I said.
"Oh, yes; hale and hearty and well-to-do, and would be glad to have you for a guest. I think it would be a very good thing for you."
"And the Duchess?"
"I mentioned the matter to her and she agreed with me that it would be a sensible move, though she disliked losing your company. But she is not one to think of herself."
"That she is not," said I. "She is a most sweet creature. She shows the truth of what dear Margaret used to say, that it is not wealth nor the want thereof that spoils people, but the spirit in which they take it."
"Then you will like to go out to Holworthy farm?" said my aunt.
"Indeed I shall," I answered, and the Duchess coming in (as indeed she was used to visit me every day), the matter was settled.
"I must visit Mrs. Patience before I go," said I. "How is the dear old lady?"
"Why well," answered Mrs. Curtis, but there was something in her tone that made me ask at once:
"Is she dead?"
"Even so," answered Mistress Curtis, solemnly; "but do not weep for her, dear Loveday. She passed in the greatest peace and joy that was ever seen. She told Master Walter, who prayed often beside her, that you had taught her the true way of peace, and had comforted her concerning the great sorrow of her life."
"I am most thankful, if it were so," said I, when I could speak; and then I told Mistress Curtis of the dear loyal soul's trouble because no one had made the pilgrimage to Walsingham on behalf of her dead mistress.
"And was it even so, poor soul?" said Mistress Curtis. "I doubt not, many hearts are aching from the same cause in these days of change and shaking. May the time soon come when all shall know the blessing of a free redemption. Master Corbet says he never saw any one pass more peacefully than Mistress Patience."
"Is my cousin well?" I forced myself to say. I had never yet brought myself to speak his name.
"I do not think him well," answered Mistress Curtis. "He hath been very anxious for you, and I think he works and studies too hard, for he grows pale and thin. He talks of resigning his post, and going back to his cure in the west, but I trust he will not do so, for the sake of one young gentleman over whom he hath come to maintain a great influence."
It was a joy to me to hear Walter praised, but I could not bring myself to say any more about him. I had had plenty of time to think and to examine myself since I began to recover, spending as I did a good many hours alone. I knew well enough what Walter was to me, and I to him. I had been thrown a deal into his company for a good while before I was sick, he having undertaken in some degree the direction of my Lady Frances's education. We had been brought up together as children, which naturally threw us upon more familiar terms than would otherwise have subsisted between us. It was not strange that another and dearer feeling should have arisen, and that without either being aware of it till the shock of my accident had revealed us to each other.
But what could ever come of it? Only for that fatal vow of celibacy, we might have married and settled like other folk, for our kinship was hardly near enough for the need of a dispensation even in the days of dispensation, and nobody thought of such a thing now. But there it was, an iron bar in the way, or rather a grated gate fast locked and the key whereof is held by some one far-away. We could see one another, indeed, but that was all, and under the circumstances, it was better to avoid even that.
Yes, it was far better for me to go away, and a wild unreasoning desire for flight and change of place took possession of me. I do not think any one guessed at the truth, except the Duchess herself. She has since told me that she saw it at once, and not at that time perceiving any remedy, she did the more willingly part with me. Lady Frances was loud in her lamentations, and inclined to be vexed with me for wishing to leave her; but a few words from her mother calmed her anger, or rather turned it upon herself, for being, as she said, so selfish as to desire to keep me for my hurt.
Both the Duchess and Lady Frances loaded me with presents of every thing they thought I would like, and I found myself heir to all Mistress Patience's possessions, among which were a good many jewels of no small value, which I hesitated about taking till the Duchess pressed them upon me.
"You cannot well take the cabinet, so I will have it cared for till you are settled in a home of your own," said she.
"That will never be," said I, involuntarily.
"Oh, you know not that," she answered, and began singing an old song of which I remember but the last verse:
"If you should deal two loving heartsThe sharpest stroke of woe;That one should weep above the turfAnd one should sleep below:That one should wear the widow's weedAnd one the funeral pall,You should but prove the force of love,For true love conquers all!"
"Forgive, me sweet," as she saw that I was weeping, "but I do believe that this year may yet come to a good ending. Man hath no right to forbid that which God hath nowhere forbidden. Do but put your trust in Him, and all will yet be well."
The Duke had insisted upon lending Mistress Davis an easy palfrey, and me a horse litter, as I was yet too feeble to ride a-horseback safely, and also a guard for the journey. My mistress would fain have had me take a maid to attend upon me, but this, with Mistress Curtis her approval, I declined, knowing that such a person would but be a nuisance in the family of plain people like Jacob and Hannah Yates. I was to keep the palfrey, however, and the duke would bear this as well as all my other expenses.
"Should this change agree with you, you may by and by travel down to Hereham," said his Grace, "but wherever you are, remember, Mistress Corbet, that you are to be to us as a daughter. Do what I would, I could never begin to repay the obligation I owe to you in saving my dear wife from death or lifelong injury."
"I thought not of any obligation, your Grace," said I.
"That is the beauty of it," he answered, with that sweet, sunny smile of his; my Lady Frances's eldest boy hath just his grandsire's manner; "you did not stop to think—that was the beauty of it, as I say—but acted out of the love and goodness of your heart. It was a happy hour for all of us when you came under this roof, and I hope you may come back to it some day. But now, my child, let me give you a word of serious counsel. Keep you close and guarded, and go not much abroad. There is no game too small for some hawks to fly at. I would I knew where your good uncle was, that I might send you to him, out of the reach of danger. If at any time, I send one to guide you to another place of safety, I will send with him this token," showing me a ring he was used to wear, "and do you go with him at once, without any delay or question."
I promised to do so, and so he bade me farewell, with as much kindness as ever a great man showed to a poor young gentlewoman. He hath ever remained in my mind the very mirror and pattern of a noble man. He was not without his faults (as who is?), but no one could say he ever curried favor with a great man, or ever oppressed a poor one. Not one of his family, down to the very scullery boys and wenches, ever passed him without a smile or a kind word, and nobody ever sat at his table without feeling himself a welcome guest. He was, indeed, what my uncle Davis had called him, a mirror of true knighthood.
I saw Walter for a few minutes, and then not alone. It was better so; yet did my heart yearn for a word, as I am sure his did also. He hath since told me, he dared not trust himself to speak lest he should say too much. Our eyes did meet and speak; we could not help that. Oh, how much have they to answer for, who oppress men's hearts and consciences by making that to be sin which the Word of God never made so; who bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men's shoulders, and will not so much as touch them with one of their fingers!
Our hands met in one long clasp as he helped me to my litter. I never thought to see him again, for I had heard that he meant speedily to return to his home in the west. The last farewell was said, and I lost sight of Sussex House never to enter its doors again.