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COOMBE ASHTON.
THE vicarage of Coombe Ashton is just beside the gray old church, so that its garden and orchard, and the churchyard run together without any divisions, save a bank overrun with sweetbrier and ivy. 'Tis a stone house of two floors and three or four gables, convenient and roomy enough, but plain and unornamented as any farmhouse. I shall never forget how forlorn and wretched it looked to my eyes the first time I entered its doors.
My husband had left his cure in the hands of Sir David Dean, a good and religious priest, but one as absentminded and indifferent to his own comfort as any man I ever saw. He had lived alone in the vicarage all these years without a housekeeper, save that an old woman, living in one of the alms-cottages by the church-gate, now and then came in and scratched about a bit like a hen in a straw-yard. Any one who knows what men are when left to themselves, may guess what condition matters were in after seven or eight years of such housekeeping. The rushes on the floor must have been at least three months old, and showed such a state of things when we swept them out, that Mary Thornton sat down on the doorstep and cried.
"Come, come, Mary; this will never do," said I, though I could have cried myself, easily enough. "Think if Madame Bogardus should come in and find us in all this mess."
Mary Thornton laughed and then cried again, and having so relieved her mind, went to work like a heroine. How we two women slaved that day, sweeping and scouring, and shaking out, while the village maid, whom Walter had sent in, did little more than stare in amazement, and stand about in the way. Thanks to my uncle and Garrett, we had enough ready money, so Walter rode over to Biddeford and brought back a piece of moreen and another of green baize.
When we had the house decently clean and sweet, Mary and I set ourselves down to the making of some hangings and curtains, and while we were thus busy, one of our parishioners, a farmer's wife, Dame Yeo, came in, bringing a pot of cream and a basket of new laid eggs. I must say our people were very good to us from the first, save two or three families, who, holding to the old ways, looked upon Walter and myself as altogether profane and sacrilegious persons.
"Dear me!" exclaimed the good woman, in surprise. "Well, you do look as neat as any daisy. But, my dear soul, what be you a-doin' now. Making of hangings, I declare. Why thou'lt never get through all that by thyself, madam."
"Oh, you don't know how much I can do," I answered.
"I see well, madam, that you are a good housewife," answered Dame Yeo, "but yet you should have more help. There is a very decent body living alone in a cottage down to our place who has skill with the needle. May be you saw her in church—a tall woman in black, a-sitting on one of the stone benches. Folks say she has been a nun, and some hint that she knows more than she should, but I believe she is a good woman for all that."
"I noticed her, and wondered who and what she was," said I. "Do you think, dame, she would come and help us?"
"I dare say she would, and I will ask her when I go home. But, madam, there is good news for you. Our young squire and his lady have returned to the manor house, and 'tis said they mean to live there, or at least, to abide some time."
"Who are they?" I asked. "You know I am a stranger here."
"Oh, they are great folks," answered Dame Yeo. "Sir Robert is heir to my Lord Stanton of Stanton, unless he should marry again and have children, and my lady is daughter to old Sir Stephen Corbet. They lived here once before a little while, but the lady was carried off by pirates and hardly rescued, and after that they took a dislike to the place. Some say," and here her voice sunk to a whisper, "that it was not pirates who carried her off, but that a priest was mixed up in it. I don't know. Any how, she is a most gracious lady, and I am right glad she hath come back. Well, Madam Corbet, I will send Dame Anne to you, an' you will."
"Do so," I answered. "And, dame, will you carry this little book to your daughter. 'Tis a copy of the Psalms in English, and will be easy for her to hold and read."
For poor Amy Yeo was held fast in bed by a broken joint which had never knit kindly and gave her great pain.
"Tell her my husband will come to see her as soon as he can."
The good woman departed well pleased, and it was not long before the woman she called Dame Anne, made her appearance. I saw at once that she was a lady, and made haste to set her an easy chair. She put on no airs, however, but seeing on what we were engaged, she went at once to work and showed that she knew what she was about.
"The lady sews like a Dutch woman!" said Mary Thornton.
"Nevertheless I have never been out of England," answered Dame Anne, smiling, "but I was convent-bred, and there we learned to handle our needles at least."
"Ay, and many another good thing beside," I answered. "I wonder sometimes what young ladies will do for education now the convents are put down?"
"Perhaps their mothers will keep them at home and teach them, which is the natural way, methinks," answered Dame Anne. "An' I had a daughter, I would never put her into any hands but my own."
I may as well say here, that we found Dame Anne one of our greatest helps in the parish. The woman who had kept a little school in the hamlet down by the shore—a very superior person by all accounts—had died about six months before, and the children were running wild. After making himself well acquainted with her, and having duly consulted with our lady of the manor, Dame Anne was installed by my husband in the office of school-mistress, and filled it to admiration as long as she lived.
Well, the end of the month found us fairly settled in our new home, and very comfortable therein. When Sir David came home from Exeter—whither he had gone to meet us, though we had never told him we meant to go thither—he held his hands up in amazement at the change wrought in the parsonage. But he would by no means have his abode with us, saying that he should only be in our way, and that he was too old to change his habits, so he took up his lodging with an old couple who had more room than they wanted, and lived with them to the day of his death, which happened about three years after. He had a modest competence, which he bequeathed to the poor of the parish; and my husband, with Sir Richard's approbation, built and endowed therewith two more almshouses, specially for disabled fishermen, or their widows. But I am running before my story.
If Sir David had been a bad housekeeper, he had not been an unfaithful priest, as the state of the parish showed plainly enough. The church had been stripped of its images, but not defaced and half ruined, as was the case with too many. The great painted window was quite untouched, the chancels decent and clean, and the seats whole. It was but a little place at best, and a good deal of space was taken up by two or three great altar tombs, but it was large enough to hold all the inhabitants of the two hamlets which made up the parish.
Sir David had provided at his own expense a great Bible, which was chained to a desk in the choir, where any one was at liberty to read it, and so soon as King Edward's new prayer book and primer were published, Sir Richard Stanton sent for a number of copies from Exeter, and had them placed in the seats or given to heads of families. My husband explained the book from the chancel, and I must say the most of the people fell in with it very quickly, so that we had as well-ordered and devout a congregation, I dare say, as could be found in Britain.
I am proud to say that in the changes which followed the king's early death, not one apostate was found in my husband's flock, and had we but been at home when the storm broke, I believe we should have escaped in safety.
I soon formed a warm friendship with our lady of the manor—my Lady Rosamond, she was always called, though being a simple knight's daughter, she had, I suppose, no right to the title. She had been convent-bred as well as myself, and had a narrow escape of being convent-buried, for—there is no harm in writing it now—they were no pirates which carried her off, but a certain priest called Father Barnaby, who had great power at that time. They had her immured in some of their prisons, and threatened to bury her alive, but she was saved in quite a wonderful way, by her own courage and the intervention of that same Magdalen Jewell who had been school-mistress here so long. She had known Sister Anne well in those days, and was glad to see her again. They had been together in the convent which was now suppressed like all the rest. Sister Anne inquired for the Mother Superior.
"She is now visiting a friend, but she will, I believe, make her home with me for the rest of her days," answered the lady, "whether I remain here or return to Stanton Court. She is well, but a good deal shaken by all that hath happened."
We used to have great comparing of notes as to our convent experiences, and we agreed that though the way of their suppression was harsh and cruel in many instances, yet on the whole the church was better without these so-called religious houses. I have never seen reason to change my mind. I regretted it greatly when Sir Richard, coming to the title by the death of my Lord Stanton, removed to Stanton Court. This excellent pair never forgot the parish of Coombe Ashton, however, but always held up my husband's hands in his parish work.
Walter preached, and prayed, and studied, and visited the sick and dying, and was, I dare be sworn, as faithful a parish priest as could be found in England.
Meantime, I, on my part, kept his house and overlooked the parish school, and another which we had set up down at the Cove for the little children who would not come so far in bad weather. I tried, too, to teach the gospel of cleanliness as I had learned it in Holland, but here I had indifferent success. 'Twas so much easier to cover the floors with rushes than to sweep them every day and scrub them twice a week; and as to the ill smells and the vermin, why they were used to them. However, I did make some progress with the young ones, and I soon came to the conclusion that it was not worth while to push my zeal too far. The good women liked their maids to learn sewing and knitting, mending and shaping, and they were well pleased when I taught some of them, as a reward, to make a serviceable kind of lace with the needle. The maids learned to read, and some of them to write, and to reckon in their heads.
By and by we had a boy's school taught by a young man sent us by my lord. It was not so well attended as the other, for the farmers and fishers were not willing to spare their lads after they were old enough to be useful, but yet we turned out some good scholars. My husband was a musician like all the Corbets, and the school master was also a singer. So we had some good music in the church.
On the whole, it was a happy time. I will not deny that I was now and then homesick, especially when three or four times a year I had a packet from Holland. Avice was usually the writer, and a capital correspondent she was, telling me all the news of our old neighbors, and every thing that happened in the family. Garrett Van Alstine wrote to my husband and told him what was going on in church and State, and 'twas plain to see that he was by no means easy in his mind.
The emperor had, indeed, not abdicated in favor of his son, but he was always talking of it, and, as he grew older, and more feeble in mind and body, he came more and more under the influence of the priests. There were restrictions placed upon the printing and sale of Protestant books, and threatening rumors as to the breaking up of Protestant congregations. Avice wrote that their neighbors of the old church, with whom they had over lived in friendship and harmony, began to look coldly on them and to withdraw from their intimacy, and that Margaret Hall's school at Amsterdam had been almost broken up. On the whole, we wore not sorry that we had returned to England, where, though matters of state were somewhat unsettled, we had no fear of persecution for the truth's sake.
It was in the year 1551, that I had a great and agreeable surprise. I remember I was busy making cakes and comfits, for we were to have a school treat the next day, and I had been concerting some famous Christmas cakes after our old Dutch receipt, and fashioning them in the shape of animals and birds, as the manner is over there, for a surprise to the young ones. I had just taken the last batch from the oven when a man-servant in my Lord Stanton's livery rode to the door, and delivered a note for my husband. Presently Walter came into the kitchen, when I was putting the last touches to my cakes.
"Here is news, dear heart," said he. "My lord and lady are at the Manor House, and would have us repair thither at once. He says that, being in Biddeford, he found there a package of great value, consigned to us from Holland, and which he must deliver into our own hands."
"Dear me!" said I, rather vexed, for I had enough to do. "Why can not you go by yourself? No wonder Dame Duncan says you are a woman-led priest, when you can not so much as go to the Hall without me at your elbow!"
Walter only stood smiling at me. He knew it was only a spirt of temper, such as all cooks have a right to. I made him burn his mouth with a hot cake, and then I got ready and went with him to the Hall, leaving Mary Thornton to finish the work.
We found my lady with her two young babes, she having brought them over by the advice of Master Ellenwood, who thought they would be better for the more bracing air, as they had trouble with their teeth. (Master Ellenwood was bred a doctor in Amsterdam, and had established himself in a good practice at Biddeford. He was not seldom our guest, and always a welcome one.)
"So you have come for your packet!" said my lady. "But, dear Mistress Corbet, I know not about delivering it. Truth to tell, I am enamored of it, and know not how to let it go out of my hands."
I saw my lady was jesting with us; but sober Walter, who could understand every thing but a joke, answered gravely that he was sure I would be glad to proffer to her ladyship any thing worthy of her acceptance.
"I am not so sure of that!" answered the lady, merrily. "Suppose now it were a parrot, or marmoset, or a fine cat from the Indies, such as you once told me of!"
"You are welcome to all my share in parrot and marmoset, and as to the cat, I am not so sure, but, at least, I will promise you a kitten!" said I. "Cats are my weak point, as you know, my lady."
"Ah, well! So I must even give my pet into your hands. But remember you have promised me a kitten."
There was a little cabinet in the withdrawing-room, having a curtain hung over the door, and as I sat, I had seen this curtain shake more than once. Now, as my lady blew her little silver whistle, it parted, and in the opening appeared a child's head, with flaxen hair and large serious blue eyes.
"Katherine! 'Tis our own little Katherine!" I exclaimed, while Walter stared in amazement. I had her in my arms in a moment, while my lady looked on smiling.
"Did I not tell you 'twas a precious treasure," she asked when our rapture had a little subsided. "And have I not played the honest merchant with you?"
"Precious, indeed!" said I. "But I am all amazed! How did it happen?"
"Nay I do not understand the matter well enough to tell you," answered my lady. "But no doubt our marmoset can give a good account of herself, so I will leave you together till dinner, for you must dine with us."
I began to say something about preparing for the school feast, but my lady cut me short.
"Never mind the feast. I have brought over comfits and gilt gingerbread enough to satisfy every child in Coombe Ashton, not to mention ribbons and scissors and all sorts of prizes. Do you stay and dine here, and to-morrow we will all attend the school feast."
So we were fain to sit down, and taking the darling between us, to hear all she had to say. She was grown a little, but not changed in her looks, which were her mother's over again, and she had the same sweet serious way with her.
The story, disentangled from all our questions and remarks, was this:
Arthur and Katherine had begun to find their position in Middleburg both uneasy and insecure. Their congregation, always small, had been almost broken up by deaths and removals, and they were doubting which way to turn next, when Arthur received a call from an English colony in Wesel, one of the German towns belonging to the famous Hanse League. They had gathered together a congregation, but had not yet found a pastor, when some one from Amsterdam who knew Arthur told them of him.
The call was too clearly Providential not to be heeded. Katherine's oldest boy had already been placed with Garrett Van Alstine to be made a merchant of, and an opportunity occurring to send Katherine directly to Biddeford in the care of a merchant well-known to my uncle and cousin, they had taken advantage thereof, wishing, as Arthur wrote, to know that at least one of their children was in security. Little did they or we know of the storm that was about to burst upon England.
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THE GREAT STORM.
WELL, the school feast was held with great success, and was all the more enjoyed that we had my lady with us, for she was one of those who carry sunshine wherever they go.
Our little Kate was taken to the arms and heart of the parish at once, and many were the "dear souls" and "tender lambs" bestowed upon her by the warm-hearted Devon women, and much the wonder that coming from outlandish parts she should speak English as well as any body. Poor Kate found it a good deal easier to make herself understood than to understand, for the Devon dialect is almost as different from that of London as the Dutch tongue itself. But she was a cheerful, brave little maid, always disposed to make the best of every thing and every body, and though scandalized at the sluttery of the housekeeping, and a little scared at the cliffs and the hills (having never in her life seen any thing higher than a church steeple), yet she soon made herself at home, and was a wonderful help and comfort to me. The children worshiped her as though she had come direct from Heaven, and if the good dames did not spoil her digestion with clotted cream and honey-cakes, and her mind with flattery, 'twas more owing to her discretion than theirs.
We passed two more happy years in our quiet country home—happier years I am sure no one ever spent any where. We had, 'tis true, one great grief in the death of a dear little maid, who was sent to stay with us three months, and then taken back to her home in the skies. 'Twas a grievous loss, but yet I took great comfort in the babe, even after I had seen the dear little body laid away under the daisies in our pretty, green churchyard. I felt that she had been given to me—yea, given and not lent—and that she would always be mine, though we were separated for a season. 'Twas a sweet thought that one more blessed spirit was resting in Jesus, and that it was my child; and I was able to take comfort in it, even when I was folding the clothes she had not worn out, and putting away the cradle she would never need. The dear Father comforted me as one whom his mother comforteth, and I know the meaning of His precious promises better by far than I had ever done before.
It was in the spring of 1563 that Walter was summoned to London, on business. That same distant relation of Sir Edward Peckham's who had inherited his property was dead, and had left Walter a considerable legacy, which his son was ready to pay over. Besides there were some difficulties about the estate which Walter's testimony might help to settle, and Sir John was anxious to have him come at once to London. He was considerate enough to send a sum of money for expenses, and a couple of stout, well-mounted serving men for attendants on the road.
Somehow, the whole scheme of the journey was distasteful to me—not for any reason that I could give, but because of a feeling I had that trouble would come of it; and I would willingly have foregone the money to remain quietly and safely at home. My husband, on the contrary, was delighted with the prospect of seeing London once more, and mixing with the world of scholars and reformers. It was no more than natural, I am sure. He was, a born scholar and divine, and he had been for a long time buried where he had little or no society of his own kind.
"But you will go with me," he said, as we were talking it over. "I must have you with me."
"A fine showing that you can not go up to London without your wife," said I, though my heart did give a great leap at the thought of seeing my old friends again.
True, the Davis family no longer lived in London, having returned to the country, but my dear mistress lived there. The Duke of Suffolk had been dead some years, and her Grace was married again to a Mr. Batie, a gentleman of somewhat obscure family, but an admirable scholar and a very excellent man. It did seem strange to me that her Grace should take a second partner, but I do think her attachment to the Duke was rather that of an affectionate daughter to an indulgent father, than that of a wife to her husband. He had, as it were, brought her up, and he had married her very young, and before her heart had time to open. Never was happier wife, I am sure; but still I do not think the Duke ever was to her what Mr. Batie was, or what my good man was to me.
Besides my desire to see London, I could not but feel that Walter would be the better of me at his elbow. A wife may reverence her husband according to the Scripture, as I am sure I have ever done by mine, and yet be conscious of his little infirmities. I knew Walter would not be so likely to spend half his legacy in old manuscripts and new books, and the rest in buying finery for Katherine and myself, if I were at hand, nor would he forget half his engagements and remember the other half wrong if he had me to look over the pocket-book where he carefully set them down, and which he never looked at afterward.
The great difficulty seemed to be how to dispose of Katherine. I did not like to leave her with Mary Thornton, whose temper did not mend with age, and who was always a little disposed to be jealous of the child. Any of the farmers' dames about would have been glad of her; but there were objections to that plan also. Just in the nick of time, however, my lady came forward and claimed Katherine for her own while we should be away. Kate would be invaluable to her, she was pleased to say, as a companion to herself and a teacher to the elder little girl. I knew my lady well enough to know that while she would be kind to the child, she would not spoil her, and so it was agreed that Katherine should stay at Stanton Court during our absence. Little did we think how long that absence was like to be, or how many things were to happen before we saw the dear maiden again.
At last, the day of departure came, and we set out, taking Stanton Court in our way, and leaving Katherine in her new home. My lady had given me a good horse for my own riding, an arrangement far more pleasant to me than being trussed up on a pillion. The two servants Sir John Peckham sent were staid, sober, middle-aged serving men, real old fashioned blue-coats, such as they tell me are going out of vogue now-a-days, when gentlemen must have their grooms, their footmen, pages and what not.
The time was just past the middle of June. The weather was lovely and the roads as good as they ever are in England. We did not hurry, but traveled in the cool mornings and afternoons, stopping in the heat of the day at some country inn, or in some little town, two or three times with old friends of my husband's settled in quiet country rectories. It was at one of these last named places that we heard a rumor of the young king's rapidly declining health.
"Heaven help us!" said my husband. "What will become of this land if he dies?"
"There may be better days in store for England than she hath ever yet seen!" answered our host, who was a dignified clergyman. "My brother, from whom I have most of my news, tells me that there is a prospect of the Lady Jane Grey succeeding to the throne. She is, as every one says, a young lady of excellent parts and sweet disposition, and loyal to the reformed faith to the bottom of her heart."
My husband shook his head. "That may all be, but I do not believe she will ever wear the crown. King Edward's will, whatever it may be—and I fancy no one knows that—will never set aside his father's. Poor Lady Jane and her husband are but puppets in the hands of their ambitious relations."
"Ay, and unwilling puppets, some say," answered our host. "Mine excellent friend, Master Roger Ascham, tells me that her liking is all for retirement and study, and that she would rather read a dialogue of Plato or a chapter in the Hebrew Scriptures than join in any gay pastime whatever."
"Alas, poor young lady!" said I. "And of what like is her husband?"
"A gracious youth enow, but not over and above wise, unless he be belied," answered the archdeacon. "Nevertheless, they are a most loving couple. But I can not but fear lest great trouble should arise. Perhaps a war of the succession, like those which have heretofore distracted this poor kingdom. I know well enough what will happen to you and me and our likes, Brother Corbet, if the Lady Mary come to the throne—and that will be to have our beards singed an' we do not make up our minds to conform!"
"Think you so?" said my husband. "Then will there be many singed beards in England."
"Ay, but not so great a number as you think. I do believe more than half of those who have used the books of Common Prayer in this reign will burn them in the next, should it be their interest to do so. They are Papists at heart, and do but wait the occasion to throw off the mask!"
"Nay, I think you are uncharitable," said my husband.
"May be so. Mind, I say not all. There is old Latimer; he is of your kind, and would be burned by inch pieces before he would do such a baseness; and there are others like him."
"And the Archbishop?"
"I am not so very sure of the Archbishop," said our host, slowly. "He is a man who greatly fears the wrath of the king. I did never like his sending away his lawful wife to Holland so readily, because his late majesty took up against the married clergy. Courtiers are not the stuff to make martyrs. Nevertheless, if driven to the wall, he might die as bravely as another."
The next day we met the news of the king's death. (He had been dead two or three days, but they about him concealed the matter as long as they could for the better furtherance of their plans.) In one town we passed through they had already proclaimed Queen Jane, and the mob were rejoicing after their senseless fashion, glad of any event, good or bad, which gave them the chance of eating and drinking.
But I could not but observe many sullen and discontented faces, and in one village we passed through we were hooted with, "Shame on the married priest. Go on with thy leman, false priest, and see what awaits thee!"
I must say my courage failed, and I prayed my husband to turn back, or at least seek some safe shelter till we should know how matters would turn. But Walter believed that his duty called him to go on, and when he began to talk about duty, I knew he had taken the bit between his teeth, and I might as well be silent; so I went forward, but with a heavy heart, and all the more because I had heard from the serving men, that their master was a devoted adherent of Queen Jane. I need not, however, have minded that. The Peckhams in general have a wonderful knack of turning up on the winning side just at the right moment. My old friend, Sir Edward, was an exception to the rule; one always knew where to find him—but in general they were a timeserving race, I must say.
Well, we reached London at last, and went to a decent hostel close by Sir John's town residence. I thought he might have asked us to his house, seeing we had come all that way on his errand, but he did not; and as it turned out, it was just as well. All was in utter confusion at this time, for Queen Mary had been proclaimed in Norwich, and people were flocking to her standard every day. The Popish party raised their heads more and more, and I was fain to keep close within doors, for I could not go out with my husband without being insulted; I did not even go to see my old mistress though my heart yearned toward her, finding myself so near. Walter would fain have finished the business that had brought him hither, but Sir John kept putting him off and putting him off, and he could hardly gain an audience.
So matters dragged along with us till the nineteenth of July, when the Queen Mary was proclaimed in Cheapside by some of the very men who had been most forward in the cause of poor Lady Jane. They did not save their own necks by their baseness, that is one comfort. It was the very day after this proclamation that Sir John sent for my husband. I went with him, understanding from the messenger that he desired to see me also, but this it seems was a mistake. Nevertheless, I was glad I did, as it turned out. When we entered his presence, Sir John was sitting in his great chair, and near him was one whom I knew I had seen before, though I could not tell where, but he seemed to bring my old life at Peckham Hall before me in a moment. Sir John made my husband a slight salutation, and me none at all. His lady was even less civil, for she turned away from me and exchanged a marked look of contempt and disgust with the priest.
"I have sent for you, Master Corbet, to tell you that I have no more need of your services," said Sir John, curtly. "This worthy priest, Father Barnaby, has given me all the information I need as to the matter of the legacy. I will attend to it. Father Simon is of opinion that my respected father was weak in mind when he made his will, and therefore it will not stand in law, but we will see—we will see," he added pompously. "You shall have justice done. But who is this woman you have brought with you?" he added, as though just then aware of my presence. "Your sister?"
"My lawful and beloved wife, Sir John, as you very well know," answered Walter, firmly, "whom I brought up to London at your own written request, as thinking her early recollections might throw some light on the matter in hand."
Sir John did look a little confused, but Father Simon took up the cudgels for him. I knew all about him the moment I heard his name called.
"Your wife. I thought you were a priest. What do you with a wife?"
"The same as did St. Peter," answered Walter. "Take her with me on my journeys."
"Blasphemy!" exclaimed my lady, with a shudder.
"And you, mistress—do I understand that you have the effrontery to call yourself a married woman, after having been the professed spouse of Christ?"
"An apostate nun. Worse and worse," said my lady.
"Apostate I can not be, since I never was professed, as you, Sir Priest, very well know," said I. "As to the rest I am proud to call myself Walter Corbet's wife, and the mother of his child."
"You are—" said the priest, and he called me by a vile name I will not write here.
Walter resembled some other very good-tempered people. He was like one of our long-horned Devon bulls, very quiet and even stolid to a certain point of provocation, after which it were best to get out of the way.
He walked up to Father Simon, and with one sound cuff sent him sprawling and tumbling over my lady's embroidery frame and into a basket holding a slut and a litter of puppies. It was an ill-judged blow; I do not justify him in it, and it had terrible consequences for us. The offended mother-dog seized Father Barnaby by the ear and bit him furiously, the pups meantime all yelling in concert—the lady squalled and Sir John swore, while a crowd of serving men rushing into the room, added to the confusion. How it all came about, I hardly know myself, but I presently found myself lying on the street, outside the door, my head supported on the lap of a poor woman, who was fanning me with her apron.
"What has happened?" said I, starting up. "Where is my husband?"
"Hush, hush, poor thing! They will not let you go after him," said the woman, and with that she fell a-weeping. "They have taken him to prison, and serve him right for a fool," said a queer, cracked voice beside me. "Only he does not know enough to let his folly make him a living, I would even give him my cap and bauble."
I looked up and saw a man in the garb of a fool, or jester, whom I had before remarked, in Sir John's presence chamber.
"Good fool," said I, "tell me what they have done with my husband."
"Nay, how can I tell; I am but a fool," he answered, tossing up his bauble and catching it with many extravagant gestures; "but fool as I am, I know you should not sit here."
"Harry speaks truth, madam, this is no place for you," said one of the serving men who had come up with us from Devon. He helped me to my feet, and whispered in my ear: "Go you to your lodging, and so soon as I can, I will bring you news of your husband. This woman, who is mine own sister, will conduct you thither."
There was no other counsel, so I went. Once alone, I sat down and strove to collect my scattered thoughts. Walter had been carried to prison—that I was sure of—but where and how long was he like to stay there? I remembered all I had heard of Father Simon's relentless character, and I felt that Walter's chance was a slender one.
"Oh, had I but staid at home," was my thought. "Had we but kept quiet in Devon."
It seemed to me as though he had been purposely entrapped, but in that I believe I did Sir John injustice. It was no pre-conceived plan. Sir John had been for Queen Jane, when that unhappy lady seemed like to succeed, and now that she was overthrown, he was willing to save himself and cover up his transgression by any means in his favor.
Oh, what a distracted creature I was. I walked up and down till I was tired and then threw myself on the floor to walk again as my goading thoughts and fears would not let me be still. At last tears came to my relief and I could pray.
It was dark when Ned Harris rapped at my door, accompanied by his sister, the old woman who had first taken pity on me.
"Well, madam, I bring you but cold comfort," said he bluntly. "Your husband is in Newgate prison, and in evil case—so I hear from Harry, who learned the same from Sir John. Have you any friends in this place?"
"None that I can go to unless it be mine old mistress, the Dowager Duchess of Suffolk," I answered, "and I know not even where she lives or whether she is in town."
"That we will find out. Meantime, you were best leave this place at once. My good sister here hath a lodging house, though a humble one, which she owes to her Grace's goodness, and she will give you a shelter for the present."
"That I will, that I will, dear madam," said Dame Giles. "You don't remember me, and no wonder, but I mind you well, as you used to go on the water with her Grace. Yes, and you was once at my place to ask after the poor, foreign gentleman her Grace sent to lodge with me."
"But shall I not bring trouble upon you, good dame?" I asked.
"Never fear, madam. I fancy I am too small game for them at present. Do you come with me and I will make you as comfortable as my poor house will allow."
"I care not for comfort, so I may be near my husband," I answered. "Oh, Harris, do but get me news of him, and I will bless you forever."
"I will do what I can, but it will be no easy matter," said Harris. "Have you money, madam, wherewith to discharge your score?"
"It is paid," I answered. "My husband settled it this morning."
"That is well. Then the sooner we are gone the better."
It was not long before I found myself in a small but clean little waterside inn, frequented, as it seemed by the better class of sailors. My room, though plain, was decent and retired, and I never left it.
It was three or four days before Harris got news of my husband, and bad news it was, when it came. Walter had been committed to Newgate, among the common rabble of rebels, and upon some trumped-up charge of rebellion. I asked if there were any chance of my seeing him.
"I fear not," answered Harris, shaking his head. "And, mistress, I would not have you seen in the street. My master and yonder black priest—Heaven's malison on him and his like!—have made strict inquiry after you, and you would fare ill, did you once get into his hands. Have you ne'er a friend to whom you can turn?"
"I know of none unless it be my old mistress, the Dowager Duchess of Suffolk," I answered, "as I told you before."
"Alas, poor lady, she is like enow to be in evil ease herself. The Suffolk family are in bad odor. You were best make your way down to the west as soon as maybe. Have you money?"
"Yes," I answered, "but I can not leave town so long as my husband's fate is in suspense. How can I?"
"'Tis a piteous case, mistress. I would I knew how to help you, for you have been mortal kind to me. Ah, well. Bide you still where you are, and we will see what can be done."
I don't think I realized mine own condition or danger at all. I thought only of one thing—to see my husband once more, and aid in his escape if possible. I lay awake all night, and in the very first gray of the dawn, I stole out and found my way to the prison. I would at any rate see the walls which held my love. When I arrived under those frowning wails, I found two or three other women on the same errand as myself. As I gazed at the barred windows, the desire to see my husband's face once more overmastered every other consideration, and I began to sing a Dutch psalm, which we had used in our church at Amsterdam. The other women looked at me with surprise and pity in their faces.
"Poor thing, she is outlandish, too," said one, forgetting for the moment her trouble in mine. "Is it your husband you seek, dame?"
It went to my heart to refuse her sympathy, but I only pressed her hand, and shook my head in token that I did not understand. I ventured another verse of the psalm. Oh, joy! Walter's face appeared for a moment at a grated casement—pale, but serene as ever. I could not suppress a cry.
"Ah, poor thing, she sees her goodman," said the kind woman who had spoken before.
"Wait," said Walter, and his face disappeared. Presently he came to the casement again, and threw something which fell at my feet. It was a paper wrapped round a stone, and I quickly picked it up and hid it in my bosom. I was not a minute too soon, for at that moment a wicket was opened and a surly voice bade us begone for a pack of idle jades. As the man spoke, a little maid of three or four summers, slipped under his arm and ran toddling into the middle of the street. I saw what was coming, and sprang after her. A troop of horsemen were galloping recklessly down the street. I snatched her out of the way just in time, and threw her, as I may say, to her father, falling myself so near the horses that one of them stepped on and tore my gown. I was stunned and shaken with the force of my fall and could not rise for the moment. As I did so the turnkey, for such he was, came to my assistance.
"'Twas a brave deed, and you are a brave wench," said he. "Come in now and rest. You have saved my child from those brutes who would ride over a living babe as soon as a dead cat. Come in, come in, and my dame shall get you a cool draught."
So there was a heart at any rate under that bulldog face. I was only too glad to obey, for I trembled so I could hardly stand. The man set me a stool, and the wife, finding her child was not hurt, bestirred herself to get me some refreshment. Meantime I implored the turnkey to let me see my husband, were it but for one moment.
"Who is your husband?" he asked.
I told him.
"I dare not," said he gruffly. "'Twere as much as my life is worth."
I fell a-weeping with that, for almost the first time since I parted from Walter.
The turnkey's wife pitied and poor-deared me, and then whispered eagerly in her husband's ear. He shook his head at first, but seemed at last to relent.
"I would I were not a fool," said he, gruffly. "After all, you risked your life in the midst of your own trouble to save the little wench who was naught to you—well, come along—I will give you five minutes, but I must be within hearing—come along."
I did not say a word for fear he might change his mind, but followed him through grim passages till he came to a door which he unlocked with a clash of keys which seemed to hurt my ears.
"Here, Master Parson, here is some one to speak to you; but be short. Come, you here."
I gathered together my scattered senses, and held them, as it were, tightly with both hands. I saw, as a dream, figures lying stretched out or walking listlessly to and fro. I saw one disengage himself from the crowd and come toward me, and in a moment I was in my husband's arms.
"But what is this?" said he, touching my forehead, which had been cut and bruised by the fall.
"Nothing," said I, hastily. "Waste no time on me. Tell me what I can do for you."
"Naught in the world, dear heart, but pray for me and take care of yourself. Come not here again—they will set a trap for you. Go to her Grace of Suffolk. She will shelter you for old sake's sake, and her husband is a wise gentleman, and will tell you if there is aught possible for me. If you ever loved your husband, dear heart, obey now what may be his last command. You have ever been a dutiful wife."
"I will. I will," I answered, though the words seemed to choke me.
Other things we said, too sacred to write here, and then the parting time came. I gave my husband what money I had about me, and the little Latin Psalter I had been accustomed to carry in my pocket ever since I left Dartford. Then we bade farewell. I must not dwell on the anguish of that hour.
The turnkey and his wife detained me when I would have gone forth. The good woman—for good she was, I am sure, though rude and rough in manner—arranged my dress and made me decent again.
"Now, an' you will, you shall go out with me to the market, and then you can easily find your way home," said she.
I felt the kindness under the rough exterior, and still, as it were, holding my senses together by main force, I followed the turnkey's wife to the market, feeling all the time like one in a bad dream. Presently a decent old serving man ran against me.
"I crave pardon," said a familiar voice, hastily, and then in a tone of utmost wonder: "Can it be—surely it is Mistress Loveday, who used to wait upon my lady."
I looked at him in surprise, and recognized John Symonds.
"But how came you here, in such a plight and in such company?" he asked, in a tone which it was perhaps as well the dame did not hear.
"It is a long story," said I; "but, John, will my mistress see me, think you? I am in deep trouble, and not a friend to help me."
"I dare be sworn she will," he answered. "But where are you staying?"
I told him.
"Ay, I know the place. Well, Mistress Corbet, I will come to see you after nightfall. The sun does not shine on our side of the hedge any more than on yours, but my lady is not any lady if she find not some way to help you."