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THE DUKE'S RING.
I ARRIVED at Holworthy farm about noon, weary enough with my journey and all the excitement I had gone through, so that I was fain to go at once to my chamber. I was really too ill to take much notice of any thing for a day or two, and my aunt was a good deal alarmed for me, but by degrees, I recovered myself, and began to sit up and to go out into the sitting-room which had been fitted up for me.
I found it full of tokens of kindness from the friends I had left behind me. There was the clavichord which I had used at Sussex House, with a pile of music books beside it, my embroidery frame, and a heap of silks, and the like, books in Latin and French, and even a box of comfits and dried fruits from old Harry Cook—so good were they all in remembering me.
I found the farmer and his wife very little changed, save that Hannah's apple cheeks were a little wrinkled by the same frost which had whitened her husband's looks. Dolly was still at home, a widow now with a sweet little boy and girl, the pets and darlings of both gaffer and gammer. Matters had prospered with this good couple, and they were rich for people in their station, but they were content with their old simple ways, and did not ape the manners of their betters as is the fashion now-a-days. You would never find Hannah Yates lying in bed till after five of the clock and putting off her dinner hour till eleven. No; she was up and stirring, and had every one else busy by four, and the dinner was on the table before the stroke of nine—master and mistress, men and maids all eating together in the great kitchen, and gathering about the same hearth in the winter evenings. Hannah would fain have served us with a separate table, but this we would by no means allow, and I think she liked us, after all, better for the refusal.
I grew stronger every day, and began to go about house and out of doors, to help feed the fowls, and to gather greens, peas and herbs for the pottage; but mindful of his Grace's words, I did never stray far from home. My aunt staid with me a week, and then returned, but I heard from her not seldom, as the Duchess sent more than once to ask for me, and never without affording Master and Mistress Davis a chance of writing or sending by the same conveyance.
As my health returned, I began to miss the constant occupation I had been used to all my life. I had often been ready to yawn my head off from sheer weariness while standing behind my mistress's chair, but at other times I had found great entertainment in listening to the conversation which went on in the drawing-room. Then I had been promoted to the place of teacher to my Lady Frances, who was a delightful companion (if I may venture to use the word of so great a young lady), as was also her governess, Mrs. Wardour. I loved Mistress Curtis like a mother, and I missed them all, not to speak of another, on whom I dared not allow my thoughts to dwell.
I was fast sinking into a state of nerves and fancies, just for the want of aught else to do, when something happened to rouse me. It was not much—only a sermon from a stranger priest who visited our own parish Sir John, and preached for him. His subject was the bearing of the cross, and he repeated for his text the words of our Lord himself:
"Yf eny man will come after me, let hym denye hym silfe, and take his crosse on hym dayly ād folowe me." *
It did seem to me that the good man's discourse had been written expressly for me. It was as plain as a mother's talk with her children; not full of Latin, nor yet of stories to make the people laugh, like those of the preaching friars in general.
* From Tyndale's translation.
The preacher showed how each one had his cross to bear, and that not of his own choosing, but of God's. The crosses we chose for ourselves were many times but painted crosses, while those which our Father in heaven laid upon us were real—hard and sharp oftentimes, but yet capable of being made into a blessing if we did but take them up and carry them according to His will and in his spirit. Much more he said which I will not try to repeat—about the little crosses of every day, the thwarting of our plans, the fault-findings and injustice of those we are trying our best to save, and other such like trials, which might all be turned—so said the preacher—from curses to crosses, if only met in the right spirit.
It was a very plain and simple discourse as I said, but it did me a great deal of good. It made me sensible that I had been repining and fretting over my cross instead of taking it up, and that I had thus missed the blessing which I might have found even in the bitter grief which had been darkening both heaven and earth for me.
"What think you of that sermon?" said Master Yates to one of his neighbors, as they lingered at the church door for the usual greeting and gossip.
"Humph! Call that a sermon!" answered the other. "Why, there was not a bit of Latin in it, and even a plain man like me could understand every word."
"Now that was the beauty of it, to my thinking," said Master Yates. "Where is the use of a sermon that nobody understands?"
"Yes, those are your new-fangled ways. What is the use of the blessed mass; I am sure nobody understood a word of that?"
"A good many folks would like to hear that riddle solved," said a decent man who stood near.
Whereat two or three laughed, and old Master Andrews moved away, muttering angrily that it was never a good world since these new notions came into it. A fine thing, indeed, when shepherds and plowmen took on them to think about such matters.
For myself, I went home with plenty of subject for thought, and the result of my cogitations was that the next morning I offered to teach Dolly's children to read. She was very thankful for the offer, and I began with them on the criss-cross row that very day. Afterward I set myself a task of music and Latin, and even got out my Greek books, but the last I had to give up, finding myself unequal to the hard work.
I soon discovered that my head would not bear much study, so I set myself to learning the mysteries of farm-work. I fed the chickens and the calves, learned to make cheese and butter, and, in turn, taught Dolly and her mother how to make conserves of gooseberries and plums, and other such things as I had learned in the convent. I had the art of distilling—then by no means as common as it has since become—at my finger's ends.
Finding that there was a great deal of ague about us, I begged Mistress Curtis to send me a small still, and busied myself in making a certain bitter cordial from cherry bark and herbs, which used to be esteemed a specific in such cases at Dartford. Also, I made cough-mixture and other simple medicines, and carried them myself to the poor sick folks, together with broth and such matters. I have heard say that folks forget their own troubles in those of other people. I did not forget mine, but I certainly found a good deal of the bitterness taken out of them.
I believe I have said that there was a certain ruined chapel or cell on Master Yates his farm, which bore no good name, and was indeed reputed to be haunted by evil spirits. Nobody willingly went near it even in broad day, and I don't think the boldest man in the neighborhood would have passed it after dark for any reward you could offer. Indeed Master Yates had strictly forbidden any of his own family to approach the place, saying that there was no knowing what might happen.
I had been to the little hamlet near the church to visit and comfort a poor young thing dying of a waste. My mind was so full of what I had seen that I took the wrong turning, and found myself all of a sudden close in front of the ruined cell, with the sun setting and a sudden hard shower beginning to fall.
Still I did not really take a sense of my position, but seeing that the deep porch was the only shelter near, I fled under it to avoid the rain which promised to be of short duration, as the sun was already shining.
I was never a coward, and the poor little chapel looked so peaceful in its green ivy shroud, that I could not make up my mind to be afraid, but stood quietly waiting for the rain to cease. I was listening to the twittering of a pair of robins who had built in one of the windows, and thinking that the place could not be so very bad, since these pretty innocent creatures had chosen it for a place of abode, when I started as I had never done in all my life before, for I heard my name called.
I turned round in a hurry, and there in the dim arched doorway stood my uncle.
I was like one who has seen the Gorgon's head for a moment. Then as he smiled in his old way, I flew to him—I would have fallen at his feet, but he drew me into the cell, and then clasping me in his arms, he kissed and blessed me, calling me his own, his precious child, and weeping over me, more like a mother over her babe than a bearded man.
"But how did you come here, and why do you stay in this wretched place?" I asked, when he had told me that my Aunt Joyce was still living and that the twins were well. "Come to the house where Mistress Yates will make you right welcome."
"Nay, that the good woman hath done already, and the place is by no means so wretched as you think," said mine uncle. "I am not the first who hath found shelter in these walls. See here."
The ruin, like other places of that kind, was made up of a little chapel where the hermit said his daily office, and a room adjoining where he had lived. Mine uncle drew me into this cell, for it was little more, and showed me a decent truckle bed with blankets and a pillow, and a table whereon was set out a lamp, tumblers, and other requisites for a meal. On the hearth was a pile of firewood, and in a little cabinet were drinking cups, a small bottle of strong waters and a jug of oil for the lamp. In short, this ghost-haunted ruin was as comfortable a little lodging as one need ask for.
"But how came you here?" I asked.
"On my feet, sweetheart—and I came because I heard my child was here, and I could not rest without seeing her."
"But why must you hide, dear uncle?" I asked.
"For no cause, my child, unless it be that, 'after the way they call heresy, so worship I the God of my fathers.' I have been in my old home in London and must return thither in order to make my way back to Holland; but, as I said, I must needs see my child once more, and so I came down to this place which hath sheltered many a one fleeing from the snare of the fowler before now. But, Loveday, is it safe for you to tarry here? Will they not be looking for you?"
"It is true—I must go!" said I, awaking all at once to a sense of my situation. "But how shall I see you again?"
"Yates will come hither at midnight to bring me provisions, and you can come with him."
"Then he knows you are here!"
"He will know!" said mine uncle, smiling. "The very thing which will keep others away will bring him to succor the wanderer—See!"
I had before noticed some pipes, which looked like the remains of an old organ, on the wall behind the niche where I supposed the miraculous image had stood. My uncle blew into one of these, producing a most dolorous sound between a whistle and a scream. I understood the matter at once. That was the ghost whose shrieks, heard at night, had made the place so dreadful.
"This pipe was a part, no doubt, of the machinery by which the miraculous virgin was made to play her part," said mine uncle. "But go you now, since the way is clear, and at midnight we will meet again."
I hurried home, but mistook my path again in the perturbation of my spirits, and came near getting bogged in a stream which I had to cross. However, I reached home at last, and was met at the door by Cicely, our old dairy maid—
"Dear me, Mistress Corbet, I wonder you dare be abroad so late. Why, Hodge heard a scream from the old cell, not an hour ago, which sent him home shaking like an ague. You are over venturesome, and will get a good fright some day, but, indeed, you look as if you had had that already."
"That I did, and lost my way, so I had to ford the Black brook, and a fine pickle I am in!" said I, showing her my wet feet and skirts. "I must change my hosen directly."
"That you must, but why did you not go back—only I dare say you were afraid!" said Cicely, being one of those convenient persons who always answer their own questions. "There, run up to your room, like a good young lady, and I will bring you a mug of hot drink, and tell the mistress you are safe, for she has been worrying about you. Had you not best go to your warm bed?"
"Oh no!" I answered. "I will but change my clothes, and I shall be none the worse. I dare say the mistress's ankle needs bandaging again."
For Mistress Yates had had the misfortune to wrench her ankle, and I had been trying my surgical skill thereon with very good results.
"Well, you are a good maid—young lady, I should say!" said Cicely, correcting herself, for she had lived in a great family, and prided herself on her knowledge of manners. "You are not one as thinkst first and always of herself. But don't you be out after dark—there's a good maid, and above all, don't go near the old chapel."
I hastened to change my dress, and to attend to my patient, who was doing well. Then seeking out Master Yates, I told him of my adventure.
"Ay, I heard the signal and saw the light, and guessed it was my good old landlord who needed help!" said Master Yates, thoughtfully stroking his beard. "I had word by a sure hand that he was to be expected, and had all things in readiness, and I was studying to advertise you of the same. I did not like to tell you till I was sure, for fear of a disappointment. To-night, then, at midnight we will seek the place, if you be not afraid—but I see I need not talk of that!" he added, smiling.
"No indeed!" said I. "At midnight, then, I will be ready."
The chime of midnight from the church-tower found me well wrapped up and clinging to Master Yates's arm, making our way across the stack-yard and along the edge of the standing corn to the ruined cell. We found mine uncle asleep, but a word roused him.
"Now I can give you three hours for your converse," said Master Yates. "The nights are longer than they were, but the stroke of three must be the signal for parting. I dare not make it later lest some one should be stirring."
So saying, he took a rug from the truckle bed, and throwing himself on a heap of straw in the outer room, he soon gave audible tokens of being sound asleep.
"There lies one of the best men ever made!" said mine uncle. "But for him and his good wife, many a man would be but a heap of charred bones and white ashes who is now preaching the word."
"He said he had word of your coming beforehand," said I; "how was that?"
My uncle smiled. "That I may hardly tell you, only I may say as much as this, that they of the new religion, as folks call it, have secret intelligence one with another, whereby many a precious life hath been saved both here and abroad, mine own and that of my good son Winter, Katherine's husband, among the number."
"Then Katherine is married?" said I.
"Oh yes, and well married, though not brilliantly as regards this world's goods. Her husband is pastor of the English reformed congregation at Middleburg. You must remember him—Arthur Winter, whose father lived in the Minories."
"But he was a priest!" said I.
My uncle smiled. "Read your Bible from beginning to end, child, and if you can find one word which makes it unlawful for a priest to marry, I give you free leave to call my Katherine by the worst name you can think of."
Somehow these words did seem like a gleam of light on a dark night; but I had no time to dwell on them just now.
"And Avice—?"
"Avice is a widow, or so we fear!" said he. "She married a good man, a merchant, and rich in this world's goods. His business took him to Madrid a year ago, and we have never heard of him since. Avice hopes still, and will hope to the end of her days, I think, but I fear she will never see her husband again till meets him where the wicked cease from troubling."
"And yourself, dear uncle? We heard that you had lost much through the treachery of an agent."
"Ay, and came near losing mine own life also, but I escaped and got safe to Rotterdam, where the family joined me after awhile. I cannot guess how it is that Master Davis hath received none of my letters, save that letters are so very uncertain. I am not so rich as when I was in London, yet have I enough to make myself and my family comfortable. But now tell me of yourself and how you have fared all these long years, and why we never heard from you. Ah, my child, I have had many a bitter draught prepared for me by mine own hasty temper, but never a worse than I brewed for myself when I put my brother's orphan child into such hands."
"They were kind hands enough, dear uncle, and, save that they kept your letters from me, I have naught whereof to blame them," said I, and with that I gave him a short history of my life up to the present time.
"And you think your master and mistress would be willing to have you return with me, if it could be contrived?" said he.
"I am sure of it!" I answered. "His Grace said he wished he could send me to you."
"I must have speech of his Grace, and I think I see my way there," said my uncle. "I have brought him a token from a Flemish lord, a friend of his, and a small offering on mine own account. I will see him, and lay the matter before him. His nobleness is well-known as a protector of the oppressed children of God. I will go back to London to-morrow, and do you remain here till you have certain news from us."
I told him what his Grace had said about sending the ring.
"That is well thought of. I will take the best counsel on the matter, and, meantime, keep you quiet and trust that all will yet be well."
We talked and talked till the stroke of three from the church-tower warned us it was time to part. Master Yates was awakened and we separated. The farmer and myself made our way home while the first streaks of dawn were reddening the Eastern sky, and reached the farmhouse door without meeting any body.
"Now, go you to rest, my young lady, and trust my dame to make your excuses," said the good man. "It is not very healthful for young maids to breathe the night air."
I went to my room, but not to rest. I had something to settle before I could sleep. The bitterest drop in my cup had been the feeling that I had been guilty of a great and dreadful sin in loving Walter, because he was a priest. Such a love, I had been taught to think, was a horrible sacrilege. It had been a misery to me that, try as I would, I could not feel such contrition as I thought my wickedness demanded, and I had at times been tempted to think myself abandoned of Heaven for this reason. My uncle's words concerning Katherine's marriage had thrown a gleam of light upon the matter. It was like a sun-blink to a traveler lost among fogs and fens. It seemed to show me for one moment the safe path, and I could not rest till I made the matter sure.
That day I read the New Testament straight through from beginning to end, and when, at midnight, I laid it down and sought my much needed rest, it was with the comfortable conviction that though my love for Walter was hopeless, there was no guilt in it—that I might even (though with due submission to His will) ask my Heavenly Father for His blessing thereon. And then, even though we never met in this world again, was there not that other home in the Paradise of God? I do not think any one now can estimate the weight which that reading took from my heart and conscience. I wondered how I could have been so blinded, having before mine eyes the facts—that St. Peter and St. James, and other apostles were married, and took their wives with them on their apostolic journeys—that Paul asserted his right to do the same if he found it convenient, and that he permitted, if he did not absolutely commend, the new bishops of the Church should be married men.
Oh, it is an evil and bitter thing to burden tender consciences by making that to be sin which God never made so, and they will have much to answer for who do it. Neither is it a thing confined to Papists. There are people in these days who make as much of a young maid's wearing of a starched ruff, or a farthingale, or reading a chapter of Master Sidney's "Arcadia"—yea, of keeping of Christmas, or eating of pancakes on a Shrove Tuesday—as ever Mother Joanna did of not believing in the jaw-bone of St. Lawrence.
Master Stubbes his new book, which Philippa sent me last week, is a fine example of this kind of sin-making. Marry, she swallows every word of it, and one might as well laugh at the Miracle of Cana as at the tale of the black cat found in the coffin of the poor young lady which was "setting of great ruffs and frizzing of hair to the great feare and trouble of believers." *
* See Phillip Stubbes' "Anatomic of Abuses." This wonderful tale is quoted at length in Dr. Drake's excellent and agreeable book, "Shakespeare and His Times."
It was with a much lightened heart that I said my prayers, and sought the sleep I so much needed, nor did I open my eyes till the sun was high in the heavens next morning.
"Well, my dear, you have had a good sleep, and I am sure you are well rested," said Dame Yates, as I bade her good morning in the dairy, which was to her what his study is to a Dutch painter. "But now, what will you have to eat, for dinner is long done."
"Is it as late as that?" I asked in some dismay. "You should not have let me sleep so long."
"Oh it is the best medicine for young things, and you have had a trying time—" and then she whispered in my ear—"He you wot of is safe on his way, and bids you be ready for a sudden start; so you must eat and drink and be strong. I shall bring you a fresh egg and a cup of cream directly."
And nothing would serve, but she must purvey me a dainty meal, though I could as well have waited on myself; but she was one of those to whom service was ever a pleasure. I ate what she provided, and then, seeing the wisdom of mine uncle's advice, I arranged my jewels—of which, thanks to Mrs. Patience, I had good store—so that I could easily conceal them about me, and did up a bundle of necessary clothing, and a few books, which I could not make up my mind to leave behind me, namely, my Bible, my Latin Imitation, and the Book of Hours, which dear mother prioress had given me at our sorrowful parting. Ah, how far-away did that parting seem now. The rest of my things I left in Dame Yates's charge, for Dolly's little maiden in case she never heard of me again. Thanks to the liberality of my mistress, I had quite a sum of ready money—enough to keep me in comfort for some time, even without the need of selling my jewels.
I never passed such a time of suspense as during the next four days. I dared not go from home lest the messenger might come in my absence; and probably that was as well, for an old enemy, even that very Betty Wilkins who had been the means of my disgrace about the red flowers, was plotting against me. She being abroad the night of the shower, had seen me take refuge in the porch of the haunted cell, not five minutes, as she alleged, before the screams and groans were heard from within; and she even declared that watching and listening, she had heard my voice talking with the evil spirit and had seen me afterward issue from the ruin, and fly across the fields without touching the ground. The dread of witches was as rife then as now, though people in general strove to conciliate instead of persecuting them. Betty and her mother had themselves no good name in this respect, and I suppose they were glad to have a story to tell of some one else.
I heard nothing of this matter, however; and it was just as well, for I had enough to bear without it. At last, I bethought me that this anxious care and suspense was a distrusting of Providence and a direct disobedience to His commands who hath forbidden us to be anxious about the morrow. I carried my trouble to the right place, and asking for grace to submit myself in all things to His Holy will, I strove to set myself with all diligence about my usual occupations; a course I have ever found the best under the like circumstances. So I heard the children's lessons—I grieved that I had not begun them before—finished a muffler I was working for Dame Yates, and played over all my music lessons diligently, wishing to have them at my fingers' ends, seeing I did not know when I should over touch an instrument again.
I was busied thus, one evening between daylight and dark. It was now the latter end of August, and the evenings were somewhat chilly. But no one had yet thought of lighting a fire. Master Yates was dozing in his great chair, and his wife and daughter sat together on the settee. They were both fond of music, and Dolly indeed, was herself no mean performer upon the viol. *
It was growing quite dark, so that I could hardly see the keys, and Dame Hannah was talking of lighting the lamp, when I heard the hasty tramp of a horse outside in the court. It was nothing strange, for Master Yates's hospitality was well-known; and many a traveler stopped with us for the night, but that odd kind of prescience which hath accompanied me all my life, told me in a minute that this was no belated guest. Master Yates rose and went to the door, and Dame Hannah hasted to strike a light.
* The English were the most musical people in Europe in those days, and a man was hardly accounted educated who could not sing at sight.
In a moment I heard the former returning, and, by the light of the lamp, I saw behind him a man whose figure I seemed dimly to remember. He came straight up to me with scarce a passing salutation to the others, and held out to me the token I had been expecting, the Duke's own seal-ring.
"Must I go?" I asked, involuntarily. It did seem to me somehow like a supernatural summons; as if a token had been brought me from another world to bid me be gone.
"You must, and instantly!" answered the messenger in a half whisper. "Time passes, and must not be spent in delay."
I flew to my chamber, and was quickly arrayed in such a riding dress as country dames are wont to wear to church and market, and which, with Dame Hannah's help, I had prepared for this very occasion. It could not have been ten minutes that I was absent, yet when I returned, I found my conductor seemingly chafing at even that short delay.
"It is well!" said he, and his tone was to me as great a puzzle as his figure and bearing. His face I could not see, as he kept on his beaver, and his cloak was wrapped about his chin. "Have you no more to carry than this?"
"No more!" I answered.
"Come, then, let us begone."
"Oh, Mistress Loveday, dare you trust yourself to him?" asked Dolly, in a terrified whisper. "Are you not scared? What if it should be the evil one himself?"
The stranger overheard her and laughed—a very short laugh.
"Have no fears, good woman. I am a Christian like yourself, and your friend is safe with me. Bid farewell in few words, mistress. It is time we were away."
I kissed the weeping women, and shook Master Gates his hand. The stranger had a powerful black horse with a pillion for mine accommodation. He raised me in his arms and set me in my place, sprung to the saddle before me, and bidding me hold fast by his belt, he struck his spurs into his horse's side, and off we went.
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THE OLD HALL.
SO here was I, being carried off at a breakneck speed through the dim moonlight of the August night, like a damsel in Romance whom some enchanter has trussed up and borne away on a hip-pogriff. My conductor spake never a word, and I was too busy keeping my seat to have any breath to spare for questions, had I dared to ask them. I was sure my companion was some one I had seen, but where and when I could not say. He had the Duke's ring, which none but a trusted servant could have gotten into his hands, and at all events, I could do nothing but abide the result of mine adventure.
At last, after we had ridden more than an hour at this headlong pace, and I was far from any place I had ever seen before, my guide slackened his paces and turning toward me, asked how I fared.
"Why, well enough, an' I had but a little breathing time," said I; "but, sir, may I ask your name?"
"So you do not know me?" said he. "And yet we are not strangers. See what it is to trust the memory of a young lady."
A wild notion crossed my mind—too wild, I thought, to be entertained for a single moment.
"At least," said I, "you will perhaps have the goodness to tell me whither you are conveying me at such a rate."
"To a place of safety, I hope," he answered. "Have no fears. Did not the Duke himself bid you trust the messenger who brought his ring? But now we are to pass a village, and you must be silent. Wrap your cloak well about you, for the air is chill."
I obeyed, and we rode on through a village where every one seemed to be abed and asleep, save at the vicarage near the church, where there were lights, and from which proceeded a savory smell of cooking, and the chorus of a song, which was certainly not one of the canticles of the church.
"The knaves are cooking venison!" muttered my conductor. "This gear must be looked to. It were as good a deed as eating to give them a fright."
He rode close to the window as he spoke, and, striking thereon with his riding whip, he called with a sepulchral, hollow tone: "Who is the profane, drunken priest who steals the Duke's deer?"
Then putting spurs to his horse, he galloped on, but looking back, I saw the poor, fat vicar gazing after us, his very cassock seeming to bristle with alarm.
My conductor said never a word, only laughed softly to himself. We now entered a deep wood, where the path was none of the best, and where the tired horse made more than one stumble. Muttering that this would not do, his master bade me hold fast to the saddle, and, jumping off, he led the animal by the bridle. We went on in this way for half an hour, when we came out into a small cleared space, or lawn, and I saw before me a very old timbered house, of dignity enough to be called a hall.
It was growing light by this time—just that dazzling, bewildering mingling of dawn and moonlight which makes even accustomed objects look strange and unreal. I could see a cluster of chimneys, from one of which smoke was issuing. A light shone out through panes of colored glass, and a moment after showed by its clearer and broader beam that a door was opened.
"They are up, and expecting us, you see," said my conductor, and again that wild fancy crossed my mind.
As we drew near to the steps which led up to the hall-door, a figure appeared upon them, and in another minute I was clasped in my uncle's arms and led by him into the hall, where a fire on the hearth gave out a warmth and light which seemed almost miraculous.
"I have brought her safely, you see, good Master Corbet!" said a gay voice. "Give me credit for being a faithful messenger."
I looked around in utter amazement, as my first idea returned to my mind. There stood the Duke himself, smiling in his old genial fashion at my surprise.
"It can never be!" I exclaimed.
"And why not? You are a reader of romances, Mistress Loveday. Tell me, is it not the duty of a true knight to save distressed damsels from the power of wicked enchanters?"
"Your Grace is another King Arthur," said mine uncle.
"I would I were, and had Merlin at my command," said the Duke. "I would soon rid this land of some its dragons."
"How can I ever repay your Grace what you have done for me and this poor child?" said mine uncle, bending his knee as he kissed the hand the Duke held out to him.
"Tut, old man. I love an adventure old as I am, as well as when I was a wild lad of twenty, and beside, to say truth, I had no one near me to whom I cared to trust this gear. But where is Dame Joan?"
At these words, an exquisitely neat elderly woman came forward into the light. She was dressed like any country dame, but still there was about her an indescribable air of refinement.
"I bring you a weary damsel, my good cousin," said the Duke, addressing her with marked courtesy. "Do you have her to bed, and when we are all rested, we will talk over our plans."
The old lady, for such she clearly was, courtesied, and then taking my hand she led me through a gallery and up a stair to a chamber where all was neat and comfortable, though every thing in the room seemed as old as the Wars of the Roses at least.
"Here you may rest safely," said she. "No one ever comes to this house, save now and then a messenger from my good master and yours. I guess from all I see that you are a sufferer for the faith!"
"Indeed, madam, I hardly know myself," I answered. "I have suffered nothing worthy of the name as yet, but I trust I should have grace to endure should such trouble come upon me."
"Well, you are young, but the cross comes to all, young as well as old. There, sweetheart, get thee to bed, and rest well."
She kissed my forehead and left me. Oh, how delightful was that clean, well-lavendered linen, albeit my bed was somewhat harder than I had been used to. But young bones do not mind such trifles, and I was soon asleep, and did not stir till toward ten o'clock. I sprang up and dressed myself as soon as I was fairly awake, and hurried down stairs to find mine uncle thoughtfully pacing up and down the hall.
"Where is his Grace?" I inquired, so soon as I had asked and received his blessing.
"Up and away three hours ago!" was the answer. "He did but tarry till his horse was fed and refreshed, and then took his way to a hunting lodge he hath in these parts. He saith his people are well used to his freaks, so no one will wonder to see him."
"Yes, he often rides alone," I answered. "I would he did not, for his life is too precious to be risked. And what are we to do now, uncle—"
"Why, nothing just at present, except what the partridge does when the hawk is abroad—keep close and wait. His Grace assures me, we are safe in this place, which, indeed, is lonely enough, if that were all, and bids us remain here till the heat of the pursuit is passed, after which he will purvey means for us to go abroad."
"Then there is pursuit?"
"Ay, hot enough just now, but I fancy it will soon cool. The king is busy about his new marriage, and he seems, with all reverence, not to be in the same mind for two days together."
"And how are our friends the Davis family?"
"Well, so far, save from suspense and anxiety. They hear nothing of Margaret and her husband, and Andrew hath been gone longer than usual."
"And did you see my dear mistress?"
"Yes, and her daughter. I wonder not at your regard for them. They are two most lovely ladies."
"But how did you gain audience?"
"Oh, as I told you, I had some pictures to sell, and certain East country trinkets of gold and ivory, such as the Dutch merchants now bring from China and the Indies. I had also a token for the Duke from a friend abroad which I had promised to deliver, and which gained me a private interview. All the rest was easy. But tell me, had you any notion of your conductor?"
I told him the fancy had crossed my mind, but I had dismissed it as too wild to be entertained.
"He seems to have thought of the adventure as a mere frolic," said mine uncle. "I do not think the idea of any personal risk ever crossed his mind."
"If it had, it would have made no difference," said I. "Men who know him well, say he is an utter stranger to fear. I would he were not, for he adventures his life needlessly in hunting and hawking, and he ought to be careful, if only for his family's sake."
The old lady I had seen the night before, now entered the room followed by a woman bearing a cloth and trenchers, who proceeded to set the board. I spoke to her, but she only shook her head.
"She is deaf as an adder!" said Mrs. Joan. "But she is a good creature, and having dwelt together so long, we understand each other very well. I sometimes marvel what will become of the other when one of us is taken away; but that is no business of mine."
By this time the servant, whom Dame Joan called Martha, had a goodly dish of young pigeons and bacon smoking upon the board, with sweet brown bread and whatever else was needed, and we sat down to dinner, while old Martha waited on us with wonderful deftness considering her infirmity.
After the meal was over, my uncle betook himself to walking up and down the garden path, for there was a small garden behind the house where grew many neatly tended beds for potage and physic, and not a few hardy flowers.
I, who had had enough of exercise the night before to last me for some time, sought my room to look for my knitting, which I had brought away with me. I found Mrs. Joan arranging my bed, which I would by no means suffer, but took the matter out of her hands. I did never like to be waited upon by an old person. She smiled and acquiesced.
"It is long since I have seen a young face!" said she, sighing, methought, as she spoke. "If my own Loveday had lived, I believe she would have been like you. But the dear babe hath long been in a better place."
"I often think there is, if not a bright, yet a peaceful side to the death of little children," I ventured to say. "One feels so safe about them. The most promising child who lives to grow up may change for the worse. But once in the Saviour's arms, there is no room for sin or falling. All is well forevermore."
"That is true, but yet the mother's arms are not less sadly empty, and none but God knows the hunger of her heart!" said she sighing. "But now tell me of your life at Dartford. Were you happy there after you were professed?"
"I was never professed," said I, rather surprised, for I could not remember speaking of the place. "By Sir Edward's will, my dowry was forfeit if I took the veil before I was twenty-one at the least, and I lacked some years of that when the convent was broken up. I dare say I should have been professed at last, for I had learned to look upon the house as home, and was well enough content on the whole, though I do not think I had any special vocation. But were you ever at Dartford, madam?"
"Yes, once in my young days," she answered, stooping to pick up a needle.
"I suppose that was long before my time," said I.
"Oh, yes, of course. Am I not old enough to be your mother, child?"
I thought my grandmother would have been nearer the mark, but, after all, I was not so sure. Mrs. Joan's face was pale and wrinkled, and her hair was snowy white, but her movements were quick and decided, and her step firm. Only her voice was tremulous and her head had an odd shake—not trembling all the time, but now and then moving slowly from side to side, as though in stern protest against some evil she could not help.
At all events she was pleasant company. I taught her to knit, and she showed me some wonderful devices in embroidery and netting. We sometimes walked together in the wood round the house. I often read to her, for her eyes were beginning to fail, and told her tales of my life at Dartford, to which she seemed to listen with interest, though she seldom made any remark.
I think my uncle chafed far more than I did at our enforced retreat. As I have said before, he had a choleric temper, though age and stern self-discipline had done much to tame it. But he longed to be once more among men and at his business. I do not mean to say that he gave way to impatience or fretfulness, but the suspense and delay were very hard on him, and I could not help telling him one day how much better off he would be if he could only knit.
"That is true," said he seriously. "If only I had something to do. I suppose there are no books in the house."
"I will ask Mistress Joan," said I; which accordingly I did, and was conducted to a little room on the second floor, which I had never entered. Mistress Joan unlocked the door, and showed me a small apartment in which were several cases of books—dusty, indeed, but in fair preservation.
"I have been meaning to show you this room ever since you came here, and now is as good a time as any. There is a secret here which may concern you." So saying she gave a push to one of the presses which seemed fast to the wall. It slipped aside the width of a foot and showed a dark space behind it.
"There is a staircase in there which leads down to the very foundations of the house," said she. "By it, you may at any time reach a place of concealment which will defy all your enemies to find you."
She showed me how to open and close the spring door, and then making all secure, she bade me keep the key till I went away, and take what books I could. I found a Latin Livy in very fair print, and some other volumes, which I carried to my uncle after I had deposited the key in a secure place. I found him reading a letter which a messenger had just brought. The man was waiting in the hall, and I recognized in him one of his Grace of Suffolk's most trusted servants.
"News, my child," said my uncle. "This very night we are to make for a small seaport—" which he named but I have forgotten—"where a vessel will be awaiting to carry us to Holland. Put up what things are absolutely needful in the smallest compass that you may be ready at any moment."
This was news, indeed. I forgot all about my books and every thing else, but the prospect of seeing my aunt and cousins once more. I flew to my room and soon had all my preparations made. I was just finishing my bundles when Mistress Joan entered.
"So I am to lose you, dear child," said she, sadly, but in that inexpressible tone of resignation which shows that sorrow has become a part of one's very nature. "Oh, well. It will not be long, and I am glad to have seen you again, though you have never known me all these days that we have been together."
"Dear mother, how could I know you?" I asked in amazement. "I never saw you before."
"Are you sure?" she asked, looking at me with a smile.
I stared at her, and somehow the old face did seem to drop like a mask, and I saw behind it the face of Sister Denys—of Sister Denys who had gone to Dartford in my company, and had disappeared so suddenly and strangely.
"It is even so, child," said she, as I called her by name, throwing my arms around her neck. "Oh, Loveday, you can never know how I have longed to speak to you when I have had a glimpse of you from the high grated window of my cell."
"But where—but how?" I asked, too all amazed to ask a reasonable question.
"Sit down awhile and I will tell you my story," said she.
We did sit on the side of the bed, and with her arms still about me, she gave me the outline of her tale—as strange and sad as ever I heard. She had been betrothed to a far-away kinsman, with the full consent of her father. Her mother had died when she was young. But some family quarrel arising, she was forbid ever to see or speak with her lover more, and commanded to marry another person. This last she flatly refused to do, and persisting in her refusal, she was placed in the convent at Dartford. She would not take the veil, however, till she was sent a note as from her lover, saying that he was married. Then she gave way.
"But it was a wicked falsehood, whoever penned it," said Denys. "Loveday, do you remember the lame gardener?"
"Yes, very well. Why?"
The rest was soon told. Denys's bridegroom had found her out at last, and carried her off to some lonely house, she did not rightly know where, first marrying her before a village priest. Here they lived for a few—a very few—happy weeks, meaning as soon as the heat of pursuit was over to go abroad. But alas, one day the poor man ventured forth too far, was seen, tracked, and their concealment found out. The poor young man was killed before his wife's eyes, and Denys was carried back to her convent.
"I expected nothing but the walled up cell, and the 'part in peace,'" continued Denys, "but I did not care; I knew it would be soon over at the worst. But it was not to be. Loveday, do you remember a range of rooms which opened back from the Mother Superior's room—perhaps you never saw them."
"Never till the day I left the house."
"In one of those rooms I found myself when I recovered my senses, and there I lived for ten years, never seeing a face till my babe was born—my little Loveday. They were kind to me then, and my child lived and seemed like to thrive. But when she was a month old, she drooped and died all in one day like a broken flower. It was as well. Thank Heaven I can now say so. They had given her some of their saints' names, but I called her Loveday after you, child, for I always loved you. She was a sweet little thing, the picture of her father. Oh how empty were my arms and heart for many a long day!"
I was weeping too much to speak as that poor mother bent her head and kissed me.
"I know not how the time passed after that for a long while. I took no note of it, but at last one morning I waked from a blessed dream of my husband and child in Paradise, and, looking up at the high grated lattice, I saw the sun shining. I had a joint-stool and table, and with their help, I climbed up and looked upon the world once more. The sisters were walking in the orchard, and I could see the very tree where Harry made himself known to me. The fountains of the deep were broken up then, which had been fast sealed in all my trouble. I had not shed a tear before, but now they came in a flood, and with them, some of the bitterness of my grief seemed to pass away, and the cloud lifted from my mind so I could understand and remember. When the mother came with my meals, I made bold to ask her for some work. She seemed pleased—she was always kind in her ways, though she rarely spoke to me—and from that day I had plenty to do."
"One day Mother Joanna brought me a heavier basket than usual, and came into the cell instead of passing it through the tour. I rose as she entered, but she bade me sit down again."
"'Denys!' said she, after a little silence, 'do you know what is the usual fate of a nun who breaks her convent vows?'"
"I bowed, thinking with a kind of dull horror of all I had heard of such things."
"'Yours would have been either the closed vault or a lifelong confinement in darkness. We have been lenient to you—perhaps more so than we had any right to be—and now,' she paused."
"'Am I to be set at liberty?' I asked."
"'Nay, I said not so.'"
"An hour before I should have said I did not care enough for life to escape if the door was left open, but now a wild, overmastering desire for liberty took possession of me. I threw myself at the mother's feet and begged her to let me go, were it to beg my bread or serve as household drudge in the meanest farmhouse."
"'Hush, hush!' said she. 'You will spoil all by this vehemence. You must do exactly as you are bid and all will be well, at last. Dress yourself in the clothes you will find in this basket, and be ready when the bell rings for the midnight service.'"
"'Where am I to go?' I ventured to ask."
"'To a safe asylum which has been found for you, and where you may spend the rest of your days in penitence and prayer.'"
"I thought I knew what that meant well enough, but I did not care. At midnight I was taken from my prison blindfolded, and carried down stairs and into the fresh air. I was placed in a litter and traveled for two days, I think, stopping now and then in some secluded place for a little rest and refreshment. On the third day there was an unexpected end put to my journey. We were attacked by outlaws. My two conductors fled, as I guessed, without exchanging many blows. With many jests, but not unkindly, the robbers drew me out of my litter. I was so stiff with sitting I could hardly stand upright."
"'Why, 'tis a poor feeble old woman!' said the leader of the gang. 'Hey, what! Cannot you walk?' he asked, as I tried to take a step."
"'My feet are tied' I managed to say, and so they had been, whether by command to my attendants or to save themselves trouble, I do not know."
"'And so they are,' said another man, with indignation. 'The brutes, to use an old white-headed woman like that. Where were they taking you, good mother?'"
"'I do not know,' I answered. 'They said to a safe asylum—to some cell or convent, I suppose—but I promised not to tell,' I added. 'Please do not heed my words, I am something dazed.'"
"The men glanced at each other and whispered together. Then the man who seemed to be the leader asked me where I wished to go."
"'I know not,' I answered. 'I have not, a friend on earth.'"
"'Tis a piteous case,' said the outlaw. Then, after a little more conference, two of the men took me between them and led me into the thicket, where I was made to sit down and eat. At night, the man in charge of me made me a kind of bed of leaves, and bade me lie down and sleep without fear."
"Curiously enough, I was not at all afraid, and did as I was bid as calmly as if I had been in the convent. In the first gray of the morning, I was again blindfolded and led for some distance without a word being said on either side. Finally I was bade to sit down."
"'You must remain here without uncovering your eyes till you hear the church clock strike five,' said my conductor. 'You will find yourself not far from a house, where they will, no doubt, feed and shelter you. Obey and no harm will befall you, if you keep your own counsel.'"
"'I would I had something wherewith to reward your kindness,' said I."
"'Nay, we want no reward from such as you,' answered the man. 'You are not our game. Farewell, good mother, and good luck to you.'"
"I heard the outlaws' retreating steps, and then all was still, save for the singing of the birds and the other woodland noises. I waited patiently till I heard a distant clock strike five. Then I unbound my eyes and looked about me."
"I found myself in a thick wood like a neglected park. There was a narrow vista through the trees, at the end of which I saw an old building from one chimney of which smoke was rising, showing that it was inhabited, and thither I bent my way. I found nobody but one old woman—poor Martha—and as she was not so deaf as she is now, I made her understand so much as I thought fit to tell her: namely, that I had been traveling, had lost my way, and been out all night, and I prayed her to give me hospitality."
"'Ay, ay!' said she. 'Meat and drink you shall have, and as to lodging, we will see what my master says. He is here now, my good dame?'"
"'Who is your master?' I ventured to ask."
"'Why, his Grace of Suffolk, no less,' was the answer. 'This tumble down old house belongs to him, and it pleases him to come hither now and then for a day's sport.'"
"I had gathered my wits together by the time I had rested and eaten my breakfast, and I made up my mind what to do. I knew my husband had been a far-away kinsman of the Brandons, and I determined to tell his Grace the whole story, and to throw myself on his mercy. I did so. He heard me with many expressions of pity and kindness."
"'Your husband was a gallant young man,' said he. 'I knew him well, but knew not what had become of him. I will consider your case and see what shall be best for you.'"
"The next day as he was going away, he called me."
"'I can think of no better counsel than for you to remain here and keep close,' said he. 'Nobody ever comes hither but myself or some trusted servant. This old hall hath sheltered the wanderer before now. Bide you here, then, and go not forth—not even to church at present. Your own family doubtless think you dead, and the convent authorities are too full of their own troubles just now to make much search for you, but yet it is best to be on the safe side. How it comes that you are alive, I cannot guess.'"
"'They were not unkind to me beyond keeping me confined,' said I. 'I pray, your Grace, what year is this?'"
"He told me."
"'Then I have been in prison nine years,' I said, 'and in that time I have not seen a human face more than three times, save when I was ill.'"
"'Poor thing, no wonder you are so sadly aged,' he said, 'but there will be an end of all that soon, and full time it was so.'"
"How long is it since you came here?" I asked, as she paused.
"Two years come next spring."
"Then you must have been sent away just before the convent was broken up."
"'Tis likely they found it convenient to get rid of me," she returned, a little bitterly. "But I bear them no malice. I have been pardoned too much myself not to forgive others. I had not said even the form of a prayer for years before I came here. I had lost all faith in the old religion, and I knew no other. But one day looking for something wherewith to divert myself, I found a Latin Bible. I read and read, and by degrees the light came to me, and the truth made me free."
"And what then, dear sister?"
"There is little more to tell," she answered. "His Grace was good enough to call me cousin before Martha, and bade her treat me with all respect. She is a good, faithful creature, and I love her as a sister. She grows infirm, and I fear may not last long. But I am old, too," she added, with a smile. "Loveday, the first time I looked into a mirror, I started back in affright. I did not know my own face."
I would have liked to ask her a hundred questions, but there was no more time. It was drawing toward sunset, and I had been told to be ready by nightfall. Denys helped me to finish my packing and to arrange securely the money and jewels I had about me, and I was soon all ready. As soon as it was dark, the same messenger who had brought the litter, appeared with two horses, and we took a last farewell of our woodland Patmos. Denys kissed and blessed me at parting.
"We shall never meet again, but I am most thankful to have seen your face once more," said she. "You were my first comforter, little Loveday, and if my prayers can call down blessings, you will not want them. Farewell, dear, precious child, till we meet in the Paradise above."
I had to go at last. As we rode down the overgrown avenue I looked backed and saw her standing in the door. She waved her hand, and then the trees closed in, and I never saw her again.
I heard afterward that she died, after all, before poor old Martha. But she was ready to go, and it was a blessed release. How little I guessed, when I used to look at our house at Dartford and speculate as to the rooms I was not allowed to enter, that my old friend and teacher was pining away her young life in one of them. They meant it for mercy, and I dare say ran a great risk in keeping her where they did, but it was a doubtful mercy, after all.