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THE WANDERERS.
I WAS utterly worn out when I reached Dame Giles's little hostel. She had never missed me it seemed, and I slipped quietly into mine own room. I felt that I had not one atom of endurance left, and throwing myself on the bed, I fell, I suppose, into a deep sleep, from which I did not wake till noon.
Then I arose, bathed my face, and put myself into decent trim. As I was mending my tattered gown, Dame Giles entered the room. I made her sit down by me, and told her where I had been. She shook her head disapprovingly.
"'Twas a great risk, and yet I can not blame you," said she; "but how did you bruise your face so sadly?"
I told her my adventure with the child.
"'Twas a great deal to do for a child no ways akin to you," said she; "but I dare to say you never thought of that."
"No, indeed!" I answered. "Since mine own babe was given me, I feel that all children are akin to me, for her sweet sake. But now that I am decent once more, I will finish your ruffle while I have time, since one can not tell from one hour to another what will happen, or would you rather I made some more cakes, that you may be sure you understand the confection?"
For I had learned in Holland to make certain light sweet-cakes, which, boiled in hot lard, were both toothsome and wholesome, and I had been practicing my skill for the benefit of the good woman, my hostess.
Dame Giles looked at me in wonder, and indeed I could not but wonder at myself. I seemed somehow so strangely held up above my sorrow and care.
The bewilderment of my senses was all gone—I could think calmly as ever in my life, and I was conscious of a kind of calmness and serenity—of a trust in my Heavenly Father, and a confidence in His mercy such as I had never felt before, and which came not from myself, I am sure. I was able, while giving due attention to what I was about, to look beyond all earthly things, and by faith to behold that shore where are no more griefs, neither sorrow nor crying, because the former things are passed away. I knew that I had seen my husband probably for the last time on earth, unless I were allowed one last embrace when he was led forth to the stake or the gallows, but I felt that I could even give him up if called to do so, knowing that our parting would be but for a time. It is, I believe, only in circumstances of great trial that this state of mind comes to pass. It is the Lamb's mystical gift to His own—the white stone wherein is a name written which no one knows but he who receives it.
That night, after dark, John Symonds came to conduct me to his mistress's presence. I learned, during the walk, that he had followed his lady's fortunes in her second marriage, and that Mistress Curtis was still my lady's manager and housekeeper, though growing old. My mistress received me with more than her old kindness. She was lovely as ever, and even more so, for her face had gained in expression and in thought. She presented me to her husband, a fine-looking, sober gentleman he was no doubt, and as good as the day was long. But how she could ever take him into the Duke's place—however, that was no business of mine. I am sure he was ever most kind to me, and I should be an ingrate not to own what I owe to him.
"Mistress Corbet is come in good time, my love, since you needed a waiting gentlewoman," said he. "You will be better pleased with her than with a stranger, specially in these troublous times when one knows not whom to trust."
"But the poor thing is in great trouble about her husband, Mr. Batie," said my mistress. "Can we do nothing for her?"
"We will consider of that."
So saying, Mr. Batie would have me sit down and tell him the whole story. He shook his head when I had finished.
"'Tis a sad case, and I know not what to do," said he. "I know Sir John well."
"Ay, he would betray his best friend for a groat, and sell his own soul for a rose noble!" said my mistress. "I dare say it was all a made up plot to get out of the payment of your husband's legacy. It would be like him."
Mr. Batie looked a little shocked at this sally. It was plain my mistress was not greatly changed, after all.
"We are in evil case, and may have to fly any day," said Mr. Batie. "Gardiner is great at court once more, and he hath—I know not why—a venomous hatred to my wife."
I could well guess why, knowing how she used to laugh at him.
"But you shall have a shelter while we have one ourselves," continued Mr. Batie, quickly, "and I will inquire about your husband, and befriend him if possible, that you may be sure."
But, alas, it was not possible, nor could I ever succeed in hearing from him again.
I remained in attendance upon my mistress, who was as kind and considerate as any one could be. All the change in her was for the better. The death of her husband and her two little sons, had brought her to think more seriously than she used, and made real to her the things which were unseen and eternal. We used to take sweet counsel together over the Scriptures I read to her. (Already the English Bible was a proscribed book, and the Prayer Book declared an abomination.) I could see plainly that while she was ready, if she could, to flee from persecution, as indeed she had Scripture warrant, she would, if need were, die at the stake as bravely as Mistress Askew herself.
I had been with my mistress in her house at Barbican some two weeks. The weather was very hot, and we began to hear of fevers among the prisoners in the crowded jails, but I could not learn that there had been any cases in Newgate.
One evening, however, John Symonds called me aside as I was passing through the hall, and told me there was one to speak with me from the prison, who had a token from my husband. There was a strange sound of pity in his voice as I now remember, but I did not think of it at the time. I followed him eagerly to a little room on the ground floor, and there sat the turnkey's wife, whose child I had saved. She spoke not a word, but with tears running down her rough face, she held out to me a little book. Mechanically I took and opened it. It was my own little Latin Psalter, which I had given to Walter at our sad parting in the prison. On the fly leaf was traced with a trembling hand, "Farewell, dear heart, to meet above."
"They have killed him then," said I, as calmly as though speaking of an indifferent person.
"Nay, madam; 'twas the fever. He gave me that token for you, and I promised to put it into your own hand."
"When?" I asked.
"Only to-day."
I heard no more, for sight and sense failed me, and when they carried me to my room, they thought I had gone to join my husband.
I was like one turned to stone for a few days, unable to think, almost to feel, and only saying to myself again and again, "My husband is dead. My husband is dead."
I know not how long this state lasted, but it was Mistress Curtis who roused me from it. She came to my room, and sitting down by my side, she took my hand, saying in her crisp, kindly, imperative tone:
"Loveday, listen to me. Will you help to save your mistress from the fate of your husband?"
The words penetrated to my benumbed brain, and found an answer there. I turned my face inquiringly toward her. She repeated her question, with a difference.
"Will you risk your life to save your mistress from the fate of your husband?"
"Yes!" I answered, rousing myself all at once. "What is life to me?"
"A means whereby you may serve God and his church," answered Mistress Curtis, solemnly. "Can you collect your wits and listen to me?"
I felt once more come over me that strange feeling of peace and strength which had been given me before.
"I will do any thing for my mistress," I said.
"Then listen. You know Gardiner is our lady's implacable enemy. Already he threatens her with a strict examination, which can have but one end, for she will never deny her faith. Master Batie hath already gone abroad, leaving us instructions what to do. This very night, if at all, my lady must make her escape to meet her husband, at a little town in the Dutchy of Cleves. You can be of the greatest use to us, as you can speak both Dutch and Latin, and perhaps, French also—"
"Yes," I answered. "I can speak French well, and can make a shift to express myself in Spanish, if need." (So I could, for having always a fancy for learning languages, I had picked up a little Spanish from a lady in Rotterdam.) "I see what you would have, and I am ready. Whom does my mistress take in her company?"
"Why, our two selves and John Symonds. Then we may depend upon you, my dear, faithful, afflicted child?"
"Yes," I answered. "I have no more place in these parts," and with that I fell a-weeping, and my kind friend wept with me.
We could not indulge our tears very long, however. There was too much to be done.
My lady professed to be ill at ease, and kept her chamber, and Mistress Curtis threw out vague hints of the sweating sickness, and kept all the maids at a distance.
All that day, I worked busily enough, packing my lady's most portable jewels in the smallest compass, and curiously reminded of the time when I prepared mine own for the flight to the old hall. I carried only bare necessary clothes for myself, besides my Bible and Psalter, and a little book of prayers, which had been Walter's.
There was some grand show going on, I forget what it was, but something connected with the new queen's doings. Already the mass was being sung every where. Gardiner and his companions were high in court favor, and poor Archbishop Cranmer, to whose gentle intercessions with her father, the queen had owed her life, was disgraced and confined. The Popish party now held their heads high, ay, and the highest were those who had made the greatest show of conforming in King Edward's days, and been the most ready to truckle to the humors of King Henry. Such was Gardiner himself, who made himself so conspicuous in putting down the religious houses, and his bulldog, Bonner.
As I said, there was a great show, and all the servants had leave to go and see it, save two or three whom we could trust. As soon as it was dark and all the house deserted, we put on our mantles and mufflers, and slipping out of the back entrance, hastened down to the river, where John Symonds had a boat in waiting. It was a dark night, and somewhat rough, which was all the better for our purpose.
Luckily we were all good sailors. We dropped down the river with the tide, and the morning found us at Gravesend, whence we purposed to embark. We staid there in great retirement and great anxiety for some days, lodging with the wife of our vessel's master, a woman of great goodness and charity, who gave us the best her house afforded. I don't think my mistress minded roughing it in the least—not half as much as Mistress Curtis did for her.
It was an anxious time, for though my mistress was well, she was just in that state of health when one never knows what will happen next, and as for any prudence in taking care of herself, it was not in her. She was as pleased as a child with seeing a way of life so unlike what she was used to. She was never tired of playing with the children, and must needs take the broom in her hand to see what sweeping was like, and so on, till Mistress Curtis lost patience and scolded her roundly, telling her that she was risking all our lives as well as her own, and bringing our kind hostess into danger.
She pouted a little, but her own sweet nature soon got the upper hand, and she confessed that Curtis was right, and promised amendment.
As for myself, all plans were alike to me. I knew my dear Katherine was safe in good hands. I had no ties—no, not even my husband's grave, for no one knew where he was buried, and my only thought now was when I should rejoin him, and meantime how I could best serve my dear mistress.
Well, the vessel came at last, and we embarked for Rotterdam, from which place we were to make our way as quickly as might be to Saulin, a little retired town in the Dutchy of Cleves, where Master Batie had appointed to meet us. I do think I am a very Jonah on shipboard. Never but once did I cross the seas without meeting a storm. We had a tremendous one this time, and our master was obliged to put back and take shelter for a day or two at Harwich.
Our quarters were wretched enough, especially as our hatches were fastened down half the time. Mistress Curtis was sick in her berth almost all the way, though she called herself a good sailor, and old John Symonds was not much better, but my mistress was well and cheerful, making nothing of all the inconveniences of our situation, and waiting on herself when I had my hands full with poor Mistress Curtis, who was sure she was going to die, and wept the next moment because her lady's meal was served in a cracked yellow pudding basin, without so much as a napkin. Never was a better woman, or one more great in emergency; but she was lady in waiting to the backbone, and ceremony and form had become as her life-blood. She felt a great deal worse than the Duchess, who indeed did not care at all.
We reached Rotterdam at last, a dirty, weary, draggled set. I was glad that, according to Master Batie's orders, we were to make no stay there, but to push on at once to our destination. I dreaded seeing the place where I had been so happy, and, above all, I could not endure that any one should speak to me about Walter. 'Twas a morbid, unhealthy state of mind, no doubt, and I got over it after a time.
We pushed on by boat as far as we could, and then by wagon and on horseback, and sometimes on foot, till we reached the city of Cleves. The very first person we saw in the twilight, as we came to the city gate, was Master Batie himself. He had come that far to meet us, and had provided lodgings for us in a decent little inn just without the gate. No sooner did my mistress reach this place of rest and safety than she broke down utterly, and went into a fit of the mother, which frightened even Mistress Curtis. It was well I could speak Dutch, for the mistress of the house was a Holland woman, and not a little scared at the condition of her guest.
"Is your lady gone mad, think you?" she asked of me.
"Not so," I answered. "She is but tired and overwrought, and the joy of seeing her husband unexpectedly was too much for her. You can see yourself that she is in no fit state to travel. She will be better directly."
"I hope so," said she, with a troubled face. "I fear lest she may bring the priest down on us; they look so keenly after every case of sickness—the vultures that they are. Alack, what have I said."
"The truth," said I, bitterly. "Vultures, and kites, and ravening wolves, if you will."
The hostess looked relieved.
"One never knows to whom one is speaking in these days," said she; "but I would the lady were quiet."
I made my way into the room, where Mistress Curtis was fussing over my lady, and Master Batie was like one distracted, as men always are at such times. I saw something was needed beside pity.
"Madam, listen to me," said I. "You are putting us all in peril by giving way and crying out so. The hostess fears lest your screams should bring us unwelcome visitors. Drink this."
She pulled herself up directly, and drank the little glass of strong spirit and water I held to her lips. It was what we call schnapps in Holland, and the flavor is detestable enough to bring a dead man to life if he could but taste it.
"Horrible," said she, making a face like a child taking medicine. "There, I will be good. Forgive me, dear Loveday. Every one is not so strong as you are."
"There, now, you are quite yourself," said I, "and you will be better still when you have had your supper. Shall I order it, Master Batie?"
"If you will," he answered, looking immensely relieved, for he could not speak either Dutch or French, and his Latin was not of much use here.
So I went out and took counsel with the landlady, who was a neat, clever housewife from Middleburg. She was ready to run her feet off when she found I had been there, and knew some of her friends, at least by name. She got us the best her house afforded.
Mistress Curtis made a sad face at the soup, but she liked the bread and the rich milk, and thick cream, and the golden butter, so sweet and hard as I think no one but a Dutch woman can make it. My mistress was quite herself again, laughing as she told her husband of all the odd mischances of our voyage. But she was ever light-hearted in our greatest straits.
"And now are we safe, I trust," said she. "I long to be at rest, even if only for the sake of these faithful women and honest John Symonds."
"Nay, trouble not for me, madam; I shall do well enough any where," said old John, as she turned to him. "Only I marvel why these people can not speak like Christians, so a man could understand them."
My lady laughed, while Master Batie said, in his grave way: "Nay, John, there are many good Christians in the world who do not speak English. As to our being in safety, I hope we are so at least for the present. We will go to-morrow to Saulin, a small town, where I have hired a house with its furniture, and where we may, I trust, find a refuge till this tyranny be overpast. But it will behoove us to live quiet and retired, and to be very prudent."
"Perhaps, then, it is as well for us that nobody but Loveday can speak Dutch," observed my mistress. "As for me, I can read French well enough, but my accent is incurably English."
Well, we removed to Saulin next day, and took up our abode in our own hired house—not a spacious one by any means, but neat and comfortable. It was an odd little town, once a place of some importance, but old and decaying.
There were no English in the place but ourselves, and one other family—that of a gentleman named Giggs, who had fled from England on some political ground, and had lived in this place ever since. The wife and daughter were well enough—sober, plodding women, much given to fine spinning and embroidery—just the women who will sit stitching at a counterpane or hanging, from year's end to year's end, with no more change than from blue silk to red cloth, or from the history of King Arthur to Moses in the bulrushes. Withal they were kindly souls, and would even neglect their beloved tapestry to help some poor woman in trouble.
But the husband I liked not at all. He was a busybody in other men's matters—with a mighty conceit of his own knowledge of state craft, as he called it—in short, just the man to be made a spy and a pump of, all the time he was fancying himself as secret as the grave. Of course, he was bound to find out all about us. He tried in vain to pump John Symonds, who was always afflicted with deafness when it did not suit him to hear, and whose tongue was not to be unlocked even by beer. Then he tried Mr. Batie himself, but he might as well have tried to extract a secret from the crypt of St. Peter's at Rome. At last he took himself off, on some secret mission, he said, and we were glad to be rid of him. But we were not done with him yet.
The time went on to November, and we were fallen into a very quiet, orderly way of living, as, indeed, every thing was orderly where Mr. Batie was. He was a wonderful grave, staid man, loving all sorts of head-breaking, mathematical studies, and caring little or nothing for the music and poetry which his wife loved. I never saw a man so slow to take a joke, or one who enjoyed it more when he did understand it. But he was a pleasant gentleman to live with. His temper was perfect, and he was faithfulness itself.
If Mr. Batie promised to do a thing, 'twas as sure to be done as the sun to rise, unless something made the fulfillment downright impossible. He always did seem to me a little like a schoolmaster, he was so fond of setting one right and giving little bits of information. All the poetry and enthusiasm in him was bestowed on his religion. I never saw one, not even my Walter, to whom the other world seemed at all times so near, and when he read a story in the Bible and commented thereon, he made you see the very place and people. He had been in the Holy Land, where, I suppose, things have not changed a great deal since our Lord's time, and when he told us of Bethlehem and of Nazareth, he fairly carried us into the carpenter's shop and the stable.
'Twas he who first won me to talk of my husband, by telling me how he had met him at Suffolk house. It was a great relief, once I brought my mind to it, and his wise, gentle counsels and prayers did a great deal toward dispelling the dull cloud which seemed to settle down upon me after the immediate need for action was past. I found comfort once more in devotion, and began to take up some of my old pursuits.
My dear lady liked me to read and sing to her, and she needed something to divert her, for she was far from well. Mistress Giggs' youngest daughter, Amy, had fallen into a rapid consumption—a waste, as we call it in these parts. Her mother, though she loved the child tenderly, was no great things of a nurse, and poor little Amy liked me about her. My mistress, ever self-forgetful, would have me do what I could for the child, and Mr. Batie often visited and prayed by her. The women were of the Reformed persuasion. As for Mr. Giggs, his religion varied with the company he kept.
It was now the end of November, and we were looking for my lady's trial to come on any day. The nights were long and dark, and the ground was covered with snow, but it was not very cold. Mr. Batie had been away for a few days, and we were anxious for his return.
Mr. Giggs had come home and had been to see us that very afternoon to tell us how he had been made much of at the court of the Prince Bishop of Cleves; it would be hard to tell whether the man were more unfit for a prince or a bishop. In his vanity, he let out perhaps more than he meant, as he told us how intimate he had been with the bishop's chief-councilor, a Dominican priest, and what fair promises had been made him of places at court, and how he should be able to serve Mr. Batie.
"What a popinjay the man is!" said Mistress Curtis, when he was gone.
"I hope he is no worse," said I. It had fallen to our lot to entertain him as usual, my mistress being ill at ease, and having besides a great dislike to him. "I hope he is not the pilot fish I have heard the mariners tell of, which guides the shark to its prey."
"What can you mean?" asked Mistress Curtis.
Before I had time to answer, the door opened quickly, and Bessy Giggs came in.
"Has Mr. Batie come home?" she asked, without any preface, and with none of her usual shyness.
"Not yet?" answered Mistress Curtis.
"What is it, Bessy?" I asked. "What has happened? Is Amy worse?"
"Yes—no. It is not that!" she answered. "Oh, I would Mr. Batie were at home."
"Here I am!" said Mr. Batie's calm voice, as he entered in his usual quiet way. "What is it, Bessy?"
"I know not if it is any thing!" she answered. "But— My father has been at court, in the hands of the bishop's confessor, and a man has come back with him whose looks I like not. You know my father. He thinks he is so secret, and a child can make him tell all he knows and more."
"Ay, I understand!" said Mr. Batie, composedly. "I had wind of this before. Go home, my child, and give no hint of having been here. I know you can be discreet."
Bessy went away looking greatly relieved, for she had unbounded faith in Mr. Batie's wisdom.
"My life for hers!" I answered. "Bessy is not bright, but she is good all through."
"Give me goodness before brightness, and faith before all things," said Mr. Batie. (N. B. He would have stopped to make a moral if he had seen a tiger just ready to spring on him.) "Curtis, how is your mistress?"
"Well as one can expect, sir, all things considered," answered Mistress Curtis. "She went to her room, but I think it was but to avoid Mr. Giggs."
"Ay, we must avoid him to purpose," said Mr. Batie. "The chattering magpie hath brought the bishop's confessor down upon us. His Grace being taken with a great zeal for the purity of religion in his diocese, is determined that all who will not conform must suffer the penalty, and all English fugitives are the special objects of his wrath, out of compliment to our gracious queen's consort, Philip of Spain, I presume."
"Philip of Spain!" I exclaimed. "Hath she really married King Philip? Well, if the English bear that!"
"I begin to think the English will bear any thing, so they have beer enow!" said Master Batie bitterly. "But we must waste no time talking politics; we must make our escape to Wesel this very night."
"Impossible, sir!" exclaimed Mistress Curtis. "Think of my mistress and her condition. How would she bear the shaking of a litter or a horse?"
"She will not have to bear them!" answered Mr. Batie, more curtly than was his wont. "I dare not risk the hiring of either. We must set out as soon as it is fairly dark, and make our way on foot to Wesel."
Mrs. Curtis looked at him as if she thought him mad. "On foot and to-night!" she repeated. "My lady will perish in the snow."
"Better the snow and the sky than the rack and flame!" answered Mr. Batie. "Loveday have you your wits about you?"
"Yes, sir!" I answered.
"Then listen, both of you. We must have our supper as usual, and keep up our fire and lights. Then at eight o'clock when all is still, we must steal out as quietly as possible by the back garden-gate and make the best of our way to Wesel. The gatekeeper is my friend and will allow us to go forth. I do not think our enemies will make any move before morning, and by that time we shall be out of their reach. Hasten and have all needful things ready, but make no bustle. Where is Annette?"
"Gone to her sister's wedding, by good luck."
"So much the better, though you should not call it luck," said Mr. Batie. I had much to do not to laugh. "I will myself prepare your mistress. Ah, here she comes. My sweet life, I have heavy news for you."
My mistress took the news very coolly. Indeed, she was not half as much excited as Mistress Curtis, and laughed at her fears that the walk would hurt her.
"But shall we be safe in Wesel?"
"Yes, I think so. 'Tis one of the Hanse League towns, wholly independent of his spiritual lordship, and the sturdy burghers like him not well enough to do him a pleasure by giving a fugitive to his clutches. I would we had gone there at first."
"You acted for the best, my love!" said my mistress. "Come, Curtis, don't stand there like the figure of woe in the pageant, but bestir yourself to get things together for our march. We are all in God's hands, and let Him do what He will it will be best."
Mr. Batie forgot himself for once. He caught his wife in his arms, kissing her, weeping over her, and calling her his suffering angel, his poor hunted darling. He was all himself in a moment, and looked a little ashamed, but I liked him all the better.
Well, Mistress Curtis set herself to pack up what was most needed, and I to getting supper, for as I said our only maid was away at some family festival. I took occasion to be seen going in and out, about the supper. I even made an errand to a neighboring shop where we often bought provisions, and finding some good butter, I bought enough to last a week.
John Symonds was to stay behind till early morning and then join us.
All the time I was busy I kept saying to myself. "Wesel, Wesel, what do I know about Wesel?" I don't think my head had ever been quite right since my great shock, and my memory played me sad tricks.
We sat down to supper for the last time in our snug little house. Every body there closes shutters at dusk, which was lucky for us. Mistress Curtis's eyes were red with weeping, but my mistress was calm and cheerful as a summer morning; and she took her supper with a good appetite. Mr. Batie looked a man who was holding himself with all his force, and as for me, I can only say that all my strength was bent to the determination of serving my mistress and saving her if possible. We had prayers after supper, and in all my life I never heard any one pray like Mr. Batie. He put new life and courage into us all, and into himself, too, for when he rose his face had lost its set, hard look, and was calm and pleasant as ever.
When the little Dutch time-piece in the corner struck eight we prepared to be gone. The night was as black as any night can be when there is snow on the ground, which was all the better for us, of course. We went down the little garden and out at the back gate. The keeper of the town-gate let us pass without a question, wishing us God speed, and then began our trial.
Oh, what a miserable walk that was. The ground was only half-frozen, and the road was rough and miry, for we dared not take the well-traveled highway. A half-melted snow was falling, which blew in our faces, and clung to our garments. Mr. Batie went first, with his wife leaning on him, and Mistress Curtis and I followed, carrying each a bundle, and supporting each other as best we could. The dear woman was growing old and not so strong as she had been.
"To think of the Duchess of Suffolk in such a plight," she sighed. "Wandering in the snow like a gipsy wife. What would the Duke say to see her creeping along in this dark night with no one to lean on but Mr. Batie?"
I could hardly help laughing.
"And this lonely road, too!" she continued. "Heaven send, we meet no foot-pads!"
"Heaven send, we meet nothing worse," I thought, for our road skirted a bit of the prince bishop's forest, and I knew the wolves were very bold at times. I listened with all my ears, and almost thought I heard their long-drawn howls in the depths of the wood, but I believe, after all, it was only the wind among the trees.
My mistress never made a complaint, and looked back from time to time to say a word of encouragement. It was but four miles, but it seemed like a dozen leagues. We met not a single soul on the road, and when we reached the city gate, the lights were all out in the town, though it was not midnight. Mr. Batie knocked at a little side gate, and said a few words in Latin. The wicket was opened, and we found ourselves within the friendly walls of the free Hanse town. A few steps more brought us to a great old church with a deep porch, wherein were wide benches. The sky had now cleared, and the waning moon showed us every thing clearly. My mistress had not said a word for half an hour, but now she spoke.
"Let us stop here, my dearest love; I fear I can not walk a step further."
There was mute suffering in her voice, and I guessed in a minute what was coming, but I don't believe it ever came into Mr. Batie's head. Men are so stupid, with all their learning.
"It is so cold!" said he, hesitating. "Had you not better—"
"No, no, let her rest!" said I. And seeing he did not yet understand, I whispered something in his ear, and added: "Hasten and find us shelter as quickly as you can."
It was not so easily done. All the houses were closed, even the inns, and he could make nobody hear. Indeed, a German landlord, once he hath closed his house for the night, will not open to a prince of the blood. He hurried from street to street, growing fairly distracted with anxiety. At last he came across a knot of students, who were disputing violently in Latin. He appealed to them at once.
"For the love of Heaven and your own mothers, gentlemen, tell me where I can find help for a lady in extremity!"
They looked at each other, and were inclined to make a joke of the matter at first, but seeing his distress to be real, the kind-hearted lads consulted together.
"There is a pastor near by who hath been in England I know," said one; "I will guide you to his house, sir, and no doubt you will find the help you need for your poor lady."
Meantime, Mistress Curtis and I had pulled off our cloaks and made the best couch we could for our suffering lady, who, while her voice was sharpened by the mortal anguish of a woman's supreme trial, still spoke words of cheer and comfort. And there, on that dark November night, in the cold church porch, was born, he who is now one of the queen's bravest and best soldiers and servants, Peregrine, Lord Willowby.
All was over, and the babe wrapped in my flannel petticoat, roaring for dear life, when Mr. Batie came back with a man in a pastor's dress, and two others, bearing a litter of some sort. As the light he held flashed on the pastor's face, I knew I had seen him before, but where I could not tell. In a little time, my mistress was put to bed in a comfortable, clean room. A kind, pleasant, and motherly woman was bustling about, providing us with dry clothes and hot soup; and her pretty married daughter was dressing the babe in some of her own child's clothes, for the bundle of baby linen Mistress Curtis brought, had been somehow lost on the way.
"You take too much trouble for us, dear madam," said I, as the good, kind woman brought in some new delicacy to tempt us.
"Nay, my dear, that I can never do," said she, showing her beautiful teeth in a smile. "My husband was once saved from death by starvation in the streets of London, by some kind English ladies. Oh, I would do any thing for the English!"
"Now I know," I exclaimed; "your husband is that same Walloon pastor whom my mistress saved from the hands of the boatmen on the river. I thought I had seen him before."
If the good people had been hospitable before, judge what they were now. The best of every thing was not good enough for us. The pastor recognized me at once, and told his family how I had been the first to understand him, and taken his part, and how my mistress had helped him, not only with food and money, but with kind words and true sympathy. At last, Mr. Batie begged that there might be no more talking, and we finally settled for the night.
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THE LAST.
MY mistress was certainly a wonderful woman. After all she had gone through, she awoke as fresh as a daisy, and I believe would have even got up, if Mistress Curtis would have allowed such a thing. I do think the dear old woman was almost vexed with her for being so well, after all she had gone through.
As for the babe, he was a famous fellow, as well as a little pig, and squalled so lustily when he was christened, that our hostess prophesied great things for his future. 'Tis accounted almost a fatal sign there if a babe, and specially a boy, does not cry at his baptism. My lady called him Peregrine in remembrance of our midnight wanderings, and I was his godmother—a great honor for me. I can not, however, claim much of the credit of his education.
"Are there any English here now?" asked Mr. Batie, as we sat at dinner next day. He would have us all sit down together, saying that it was no time for worldly forms, as indeed it was not. "We heard the English congregation was wholly broken up."
"It hath been so!" answered Monsieur Claude. "But the pastor resides here still. His name is Winter!"
"Winter!" I exclaimed. "Not Arthur Winter from Middleburg."
"The same, madam!"
"Do you know him?" asked Mr. Batie.
"Know him!" said I. "He married my own cousin, and his daughter is our dear adopted child. How stupid of me not to remember that it was to Wesel they came. It was Arthur Winter that married me."
And I had much ado not to burst out weeping. Mr. Batie poured me out a glass of wine, which I drank, and restrained myself with a great effort. Madam Claude stepped out of the room and presently returned with a smelling bottle which she had been some time in finding. I suppose it may seem strange to some, but I dreaded to see Arthur and Katherine. It seemed like a tearing open of the unhealed wound, and I felt in the perverseness of grief, as if I could bear any thing better than their sympathy. There was no use in giving way to such feelings, however, and I was nerving myself to ask Madam Claude for a guide to their house, when the door opened, and I found myself in Katherine's arms—the very same Katherine I had left in Middleburg so many years before—a little older, but serene and fair as ever. Naturally her first question was for her child.
"Katherine is well and in good hands!" said I, and I told her how I had left her. "She will be safe there if any where! My lord is king on his own domain, and any one coming to molest him would go to feed the crabs and codlings within two hours afterward."
My lady would have me go home to spend the day with my cousin, and as she really did not need me, I was glad to do so, finding after the first was over, great comfort in her gentle familiar English ways. She told me my uncle was well, as also our other friends in Rotterdam and Amsterdam, and that the prospects of the Reformed religion grew more and more gloomy. New restraints and vexations were laid upon the Protestants every day, and it was believed they would finally be wholly forbidden the exercise of their religion. Garrett had given up business, and they talked of removing to Leyden, but nothing was settled when Katherine last heard.
"And what will you do?" she asked, looking at me with her sweet eyes full of pity and kindness.
"Whatever my hand shall find!" I answered. "I have no earthly duty now but to my dear mistress, and whither she goes I will go, were it to the ends of the earth."
And, indeed, I did travel many a rough and weary mile with her ere we saw England again.
My mistress was about again, and we were once more established in a neat little house which Mr. Batie had hired.
The Christmas holidays were close at hand, and I dreaded them so much, I would have liked to sleep over them. Indeed, holidays become sad things as one grows older. In case of those which the church has always held sacred, one can, indeed, find comfort in looking at the great truths they commemorate. Mr. Batie had gently pointed this out to me, and had bidden me take refuge from my sad thoughts in meditations on the wonderful mystery of God manifest in the Babe at Bethlehem. I tried to do so, and did in some sort succeed, though the sad remembrance of our last happy Christmas at Coombe Ashton would at times sweep all before it in a flood of tears.
I was determined, however, that I would not be a kill-joy, and I threw myself with zeal into all the preparations in which these good folks delight. I was helping my lady to dress some fine dolls like English ladies for the granddaughters of our first host, Monsieur Claude, when there was a knock at the street door, and presently Mrs. Curtis beckoned my lady out of the room. I was surprised, for Mistress Curtis would have stood on ceremony in the dungeon of the Inquisition. Presently my lady came back to her own chamber where we were sitting.
"Katherine is below, sweet!" said she.
I rose to go, but she detained me.
"She hath brought a guest with her—an Englishman who has come over with great news."
Somehow—I know not how—I saw it all in an instant. I burst from her detaining grasp, flew down the stairs, and the next minute was in my husband's arms.
Yes, it was Walter himself—thin, gray-headed, worn, but yet mine own true love. I would have known him any where changed as he was. I asked no questions. I was not oven surprised to see him. There he was and that was enough for me.
When we had come to ourselves a little, he told us his story. He had been left for dead in the crisis of the fever, and the turnkey's wife really believed she was telling the truth. When she returned to the prison, however, and sought the body to do for it some last decent offices, she found that Walter still lived, though the life was hardly perceptible. She had never forgotten what I had done for their child, and taking counsel with my husband, they procured a rough coffin, and removing Walter in it as if for burial, they took him to a secret nook, where the woman nursed him, pretending he was a brother of her own, who had taken the fever while waiting on the prisoners.
Walter lay long in extreme weakness, and longer still before his guardians judged it safe for him to try to escape. At last, however, he adventured it, and got away in a French vessel, whose master was a Huguenot. He had learned of our whereabouts by means of that secret intelligence, which, as I have said, exists among the reformed all over Europe, and after many wanderings and trials, he had made his way to Wesel.
And now it is time for me to bring this story to a close. We lived in Wesel some two years. Then, Mr. Batie, unwisely as we thought, made another move to the dominions of the Palsgrave. However, we went with them, for Mistress Curtis had died in the meantime, and my mistress depended much upon me. Here we lived a while longer, poor enough, for all the money and jewels we had brought from home were exhausted. Mr. Batie, with all his learning, could find little to do, and, indeed, we were hungry more than once. In this strait, it was my privilege to help the lady who had done so much for me. I had always kept up my music, and I was fortunate in obtaining pupils on the lute and in singing, enough at least to find us bread, and buy clothes for my godson.
At the end of another year, a great piece of good fortune befell us. Mr. Batie found an old schoolmate in a Polish nobleman who was high in the favor of Julius, King of Poland. He interested the king in his friend's behalf, and by and by we heard that the king had assigned Mr. Batie quite a princely domain. We had a hard journey thither, and a harder time still, or so I thought, in cleaning the old rookery of a castle, and making it decent for Christians to live in. I would like to tell you of our life in that far-away land, but this book of mine hath run too long already. Be it enough to say, that we lived in great peace and comfort till the accession of our present gracious queen brought us back to England once more.
When I had seen my dear lady settled in her own house, we went down to Coombe Ashton, taking with us one I never thought to see again—Father Austin, whom we found absolutely starving in the streets of London.
The dear old man hath lived with us ever since. He will not say out and out that he hath abandoned his old religion, but he reads all the Scriptures, and goes to hear my husband preach. Mr. Batie exerted himself to procure the arrears of Father Austin's small pension, which is now paid regularly. He is as happy as possible, his only trouble arising from the performances of the Jesuits, as the new order is called.
Katherine and her husband still live at Wesel. Her oldest girl—my adopted daughter—is well married, and lives near us, and I have two boys and a girl of mine own. My uncle died full of years, just in time to escape the storm of persecution and war which Philip of Spain hath let loose on the Netherlands. We have heard nothing of Avice and her husband for years.
And now this hand of mine, feeble and wrinkled, lays down the pen. I have seen many changes in my time, and passed through many sorrows. It is some times hard for me to feel that this is the same England, where, when I was young, a man who read the Bible in his family, took his life in his hand. Truly the Lord hath been bountiful to us beyond all our deserts. May we never be so unmindful of His favor as to draw down His judgments once more upon us.
THE END OF LOVEDAY'S HISTORY.