Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: She climbed over the wall by the beehives.
The gardener had left his ladder close by.]
_The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles._
_[Year 1529]_
_Lady Rosamond's Book;_
OR,
DAWNINGS OF LIGHT.
BY
_LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY_
_AUTHOR OF_
_"LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS;" "WINIFRED."_
NEW EDITION.
LONDON:
JOHN F. SHAW & CO.
48 Paternoster Row, E.C.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. St. Swithin's Day, in the year of Grace, 1529.
II.
III. Feast of St. Agnes, April 20.
IV. Feast of St. Catherine, April 29.
V. Eve of St. John, May 5th.
VI. May 15th.
VII. St. John Baptist's Day, June 24.
VIII.
IX. July 14.
X. St. Mary Magdalene, July 21.
XI. August 1.
XII. August 2.
XIII. August 12, Feast of St. Clare.
XIV. August 14.
XV. August 25.
XVI. St. Michael's Eve, Sept. 28.
XVII. October 28.
XVIII. All Saints' Day, Nov. 2.
XIX. Nov. 4.
XX. Nov. 8th.
XXI. Corby End, April 20, 1530.
XXII. April 23.
XXIII.
XXIV. April 25, Sunday.
XXV. April 30.
XXVI. May 12.
XXVII. June 1.
XXVIII.
XXIX. June 20.
XXX. June 30.
XXXI. June 30.
XXXII. July 20, Tremador, in Cornwall.
XXXIII. July 30.
XXXIV. Aug. 3.
XXXV. Aug. 5.
XXXVI. Aug. 18.
XXXVII. Aug. 20.
XXXVIII. Aug. 30—the day after.
XXXIX. Coombe Ashton, Sept. 10.
XL. Sept. 12.
XLI. St. Ethelburga's Shrine, Sept. 30.
XLII. Tremador, All Saints' Day, Nov. 1.
XLIII. Stanton Court, May 12, 1590.
[Illustration]
THE PREAMBLE.
_Stanton Court, August 21._
I FOUND the original of this book (1710) in my father's library.
Remembering well, when I was a child, how my dear and honored mother
used to value it, and how she used sometimes to read to us young ones
little bits therefrom, I was led to peruse it myself; and since that
time I have amused my leisure hours by making a fair copy of the
chronicle (for such it really is) as a present to my dear child and
charge, the Lady Lucy Stanton.
Amy Rosamond Stanton, spoken of at the end of the book, was my
grandmother, my father's mother. She was in many respects a peculiar
person, very beautiful and accomplished, but uncommonly retiring
and serious in her tastes, given to study and solitary meditation,
specially after the death of her husband. My mother ever loved her
as an own mother, and we have still her portrait. It represents a
beautiful woman indeed, but so absolutely fair and colorless as to seem
almost unreal.
There is a tradition in the family that this wonderful fairness is
derived from a certain personage called "The Fair Dame of Stanton,"
whom one of the Lords of Stanton married in foreign parts. The story
goes that this fair dame was one of those strange creatures, neither
quite spiritual nor yet wholly human, a kind of Melusina or Tiphane Le
Fee, and that she vanished at last in some strange fashion, leaving two
children. The common people, and some who should be above such notions,
believe that the Fair Dame doth sometimes return in the person of one
of her descendants, and that such a return always bodes woe to the
family. But this is all nonsense. So much is true that the lady came
from foreign parts, and that she was possessed of this curious fair
beauty, which now and then reappears in the person of some descendant
of hers, as in the case of my grandame. She had some peculiarities of
religious belief, probably inherited from her Albigensian ancestors,
and 'tis certain that she possessed a copy of Holy Scripture as done
into English by Wickliffe. This book was found concealed in the
apartment known as the Fair Dame's bower, and is still preserved in our
library.
My mother also wrote a chronicle of her young days, which is one of
my most precious possessions. I would fain have my Lucy do the same,
but she is a true Stanton, and cares little for books, being a born
housewife. Her father has married a second time, and has a son, so that
Lucy is no longer the sole hope of the race. She gets on well with her
stepmother, who is an amiable young lady, not so many years her senior
as I could wish, but still she loves best to pass her time here with
me, in this home of my youth, which my Lord has most kindly fitted up
and given me for my life. I have a widowed daughter, who lives with me,
and plenty of grandchildren to visit me, so that I am never lonely. But
I meant not to write the history of my own life, but only to give an
account of this book.
_DEBORAH CORBET._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK._
Edmund Andrews, for sea fisshe . . . . . . . £0. ivs. xd.
John Earle, for spice. . . . . . . . . . . . ixs. ixd.
Thomas Smith, dried ling . . . . . . . . . . vs. iiiid.
Mistress Ashe, a webbe of white hollands . . xivs.
John Earle, spices, dates and almond . . . . £0. is. xd.
Mistress Ashe, needles, silk and thread. . . viiis.
Mistress Ashe, a webbe of fine diaper. . . . xls. ixd.
CHAPTER I.
I SUPPOSE I had better begin by telling how I came by this book, though
that is not the beginning either, but perhaps it will do as well as
any other to start from. Dear Mother says I am to write a chronicle of
my life, as it seems some ladies of our family have done before me. So
here I begin by first putting the date:
_St. Swithin's Day, in the year of Grace, 1529._
Dear Mother Superior was in the library this morning, looking at the
work I have been helping Sister Gertrude to finish, of putting the
books in order, and writing out a fair list of them. Sister Gertrude
cannot write on account of her eyes, and she does not know Latin, and
as I do, and can write a fair hand, I was able to help her, which
pleased us both well.
[I do shrewdly suspect there was another hindrance more vital than the
dear Sister's eyes, but I would not have hinted such a thing for the
world. If she did not know writing, she knew many another thing better
worth knowing.] *
Well, Mother Superior did commend our diligence, and gave Sister
Gertrude much praise, which she in turn transferred to me, at which
Sister Catherine, who must be on hand as usual, exclaimed:
"What holy humility Sister Gertrude shows!"
"Nay, I thought not of humility, but only of justice, and giving the
child her due," answered Sister Gertrude.
"I fear 'twill be long before our dear young Rosamond emulates your
example," continued Sister Catherine, as if Sister Gertrude had not
spoken. "I fear her gifts are but a snare to her in that respect. Dear
Rosamond, remember nothing was so dear to St. Frances as humility."
* The sentences in brackets were writ on the margin of Lady
Rosamond's book, but in transcribing I have put them in the body of
the work. Most of them seem to have been added at a later date.—D. C.
"Sister Catherine, is not your charge in the wardrobe at this hour?"
asked Mother Superior (methought somewhat dryly). Sister Catherine
retired without a word, but I can't say she looked very humble. If she
were not a devoted religious, I should say she looked ready to bite.
"You have made a good piece of work between you, my children," said
Mother; "and now we are in order, we must keep in order. 'Tis not often
that a lady's house possesses so many books as ours, and we have, I
fear, hardly prized them as we ought. When Rosamond comes to be abbess,
she will make our poor house a seminary of learning."
"What have you got there, child?"
"'Tis a great book of blank paper, dear Mother," said I, showing this
book to her. "It has been begun as an accompt, as I think, and then as
a receipt, but it is mostly empty."
"And you would like to fill it?" said Mother, smiling: "Well, well, you
have been a good maid, and deserve a reward. You shall have the book,
and write a chronicle of your life therein, as did your great grandame
of hers. You are a true Corbet, and 'Corbys will have quills,' is an
old saying of your house."
I was well pleased, for I do love to write; but what can I say about
my own life, only the little things which happen every day, and much
the same to every one. To be sure, in the lives of saints, as well as
in the history books, I do love best to read about the common things,
even such as what they ate, and how they slept, and so on. It seems to
bring them nearer to one. Not that I shall ever be a saint, I am sure.
Sister Catherine was right there. I should be more likely to make a
good housewife. Sometimes I fear I have no vocation at all, though I
have, as it were, grown up with a veil on my face. Richard Stanton used
to say I should never make a nun.
Now I am going to begin my life. My name is Rosamond Corbet, and I was
born in Devonshire. My father is a worshipful knight, Stephen Corbet by
name, and my mother Alice Stanton, a niece of my Lord Stanton, at the
great house. The Corbets are the elder family, having lived at Fresh
Water long before the Stantons, who only came in with the Conqueror.
The name used to be writ Corby, and the common folk call it so to this
day. The corby, or hooded crow, is the cognizance of our house, and
this bird, commonly of evil omen, is said to be lucky to our race. 'Tis
not a nice bird, and I could wish we had an eagle or a falcon to our
crests; but after all they are alike birds of prey. They say we are not
Saxon, but British in descent, and that is how we come by our black
hair and eyes. The Stantons, who should, methinks, be dark, are all
fair.
I was the youngest of my family. My mother was a great friend of
the Lady Margaret Vernon, our dear Mother Superior. It was thought
at one time she had herself a strong vocation, but she met with Sir
Stephen, and there was an end of that. So to make amends, I suppose,
she promised her second girl to this house, or her first, if she had
but one. So I, being the second maid, the lot fell on me, and I have
spent at least half my time here since I was five years old. I like it
well enough too, though I confess I am now and then glad to get back
home and run about the woods' and sands, and play with the babes in
the cottages. I do love children, specially young children. I think my
vocation will be to teaching, or else to the pantry and pastry-room.
Once I told Sister Gertrude so, and she said it reminded her of her
younger brother, who when asked what he would do when he was grown up,
answered that he would be a bishop, or else a fisherman, like old Will
Lee.
Once I stayed at home six years. It was then I learned to write and to
construe Latin, from my brother's tutor, Master Ellenwood. I was always
a great pet of his, and when he offered to teach me Latin, my father
made no objection, saying that a little learning would do me no harm,
and might sometime stand me in good stead.
That was a happy time. We three young ones and Dick Stanton studied
together all the morning, and played together all the afternoon, save
for the two hours or so of needlework, and the like, which my mother
exacted from us girls. I may say without vanity that brother Henry
and I were the best scholars. Alice was passable, but poor Dick was
always in disgrace. In all the manly exercises, such as riding the
great horse, shooting with both long and cross-bow, sword play, and so
on, however, Dick was far beyond any of the other lads. So he was in
managing a horse, a dog, or a hawk, and 'twas wonderful how all dumb
creatures loved him. Now he is a squire in France, with my Lord his
uncle, and I am here. I don't suppose I shall ever see him again in
this world.
My mother was alive then. She was a most notable lady, always very
still and quiet, but attending well to the ways of her household, and
keeping all in their places, not by any assumption of greatness, but
by the dignity and kindness of her own manners. She was a most kind
mother, but not so fond as some, at least to me. It used to trouble
me sometimes, till one day, by chance, I found out the reason, by
overhearing some words spoken between her and an old gentlewoman, a
kinswoman of hers, who stayed some time with her.
"Methinks Rosamond is no favorite," said my old lady. "And yet 'tis
a good, docile little maid, more to my mind than Alice, with all her
beauty."
"You are right, kinswoman," replied my mother; "but he who has the
keeping of another's treasure, if he be wise, does not suffer himself
to be overmuch looking upon or handling, the same. Rosamond is not
mine. She is given to the Church, and I dare not give my mother's heart
its way with her, lest my natural affections should rise up against my
Lord's demands."
[I remember my own heart rather rose against this doctrine, even then.
It seemed to me that our Lord cared for His own mother even on the
cross. I knew that much, though I had never seen the Scriptures at
that time, and I could not see why He should have given people natural
affections only to be trampled on. Now I know that St. Paul places them
who are without natural affection in no flattering category.]
When I showed this that I have written to dear mother, she said I must
run my pen through what I wrote about Sister Catherine.* She said
we must concern ourselves with our own faults and not with those of
others. But somehow our own faults and other people's will get mixed
together.
* So she did, but not so that I could not read it, and I judged
best to write it out with the rest.—D. C.
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