_Corby End, April 20, 1530._
I LITTLE thought, a year ago, that another April would see me quietly
at home in my father's house, and with such a companion—still less that
I could be quite content in such a companionship. If any one had told
me so, I should have laughed or been angry, I hardly know which, and
yet I am quite ready to confess that 'tis all for the best.
My father, my Lady and Harry are all gone to make a visit at Fulton
Manor, where is now much company to celebrate the wedding of Sir
Thomas' eldest daughter. I was to have gone with them, but when the day
came the weather was damp and cold; and as I am only just beginning to
be strong again, my Lady and I both thought I should be better at home.
Father and Harry were much disappointed, and I saw Harry was a little
disposed to lay the blame on my Lady, but a little quiet reasoning and
some coaxing finally made him own that all was for the best. So here I
am, in sole possession of the house, and for the first time I have got
out my book of chronicles.
I have read it all over, and pasted in the loose leaves where they
belong, as even should I return to the convent I shall not take it with
me. I am minded to continue it, especially as I can now write freely
and without concealment. My stepmother never interferes in my private
matters. Even Mrs. Prue, who began by attributing to her almost every
fault of which woman is capable, now grudgingly admits that my Lady
minds her own business, and is passing good-natured. In fact, only for
that one mortal sin of marrying my father, I think the old woman would
allow her new lady to be a mistress of good conditions.
I suppose I had better begin just where I left off.
The night before Amice died, she begged that I alone might sit with
her, saying that Mother Gertrude needed unbroken rest, which was true.
Amice was so manifestly near her end that Mother Superior did not like
to refuse her anything, and Mother Gertrude somewhat unwillingly gave
way. The dear Mother would have spent the whole night in prayer for her
niece at the shrine of St. Ethelburga, had not Mother Superior laid her
commands on her to go to bed and rest all night.
"Sit close by me, dear Rosamond," said Amice, "you know I cannot speak
loud now, and I have much to say."
"You must not tire yourself by talking," said I.
"It will make no difference," she answered.
"I feel that my end is very near. Doubtless what I did last night may
have hastened my death, but I do not regret it; I would do it again."
"What you did last night!" I repeated, struck with a sudden, most
strange thought. "Do you mean, Amice, that you—" I could not finish the
sentence.
"Hush!" said she. "Even so, Rosamond. I took the keys from under Mother
Gertrude's pillow (you know how sound she sleeps, especially when she
has been disturbed), opened the doors and let the prisoner free."
"But the outer door—that heavy iron door!" I exclaimed, in amazement.
"I did not open the outer door. She climbed over the wall there by the
beehives. The gardener had left his ladder close by. I wonder they did
not find it in the search this morning."
"I dare say he had taken it away before that he might not be blamed
for his carelessness," said I. "But Amice, even then I see not how you
accomplished it. We have thought you so weak."
"And so I have been," said she. "The day before, I could hardly rise
without help, and after I got back to my bed, I lay for many hours so
utterly exhausted that I many times thought myself dying. But at least
I had the strength to call nobody, for I wished above all things that
Magdalen might have time to escape. She told me at parting that with
three hours' vantage, she would defy even the King's bloodhounds to
find her; and I was determined she should lose that vantage through no
fault of mine."
"But, if you had died, Amice—died without confession and the
sacraments," said I. I knew that she had not confessed for a long time,
putting off the Father by saying she was too weak, and that it hurt her
to talk.
"I should not have died without confession, dearest Rosamond," said
she, with an heavenly smile. "I have known this many a day that there
needs no priest to make a confession valid, but that to every truly
penitent heart the way to the very throne of Heaven is open, and that
the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin. If I regretted
aught, it was that I must die without another kind of confession—the
confessing my faith openly before men. I have longed to do so, but I
shame to say it—I have been afraid. But now I fear no longer."
I was utterly dumbfounded, and could not speak a word.
"Shall I tell you the whole?" she asked, presently. "Or are you
too much shocked to hear more? You will not cast me off, will you,
Rosamond?"
"Never!" said I, finding my voice at last. "But, dearest Amice,
consider. Think of your fair fame—of Mother Gertrude and dear Mother
Superior!"
"I have thought of all," she answered; "yea, many times overt and
though I grieve to grieve them, yet I must needs speak. I have denied
Him before men too long already: I must needs confess Him before I die,
come what may. Give me some cordial, Rosamond. I must keep myself up
till to-morrow, at least."
I gave her the cordial, and after a little rest, she began once more:
"Rosamond, do you remember the day we were dusting the chairs in the
Queen's room, and you showed me one, the velvet whereof was spotted
with small spots, as of drops of water? Mother Gertrude sent you to the
wardrobe just then."
"I remember it well," I answered; "and that looking from the window
I saw you reading some ragged leaves which you put into your bosom.
I meant to ask what they were, but in the multitude of business, I
forgot."
"Exactly so!" said Amice. "I was dusting the chair, and on taking up
the cushion, which I found to be moveable, there fell out these leaves.
I took them up to read them, thinking they might throw some light on
the poor lady's history, but I had read little when I knew what I had
found—something I had long desired to see. It was a written copy of the
Gospel of St. John, done into English. Doubtless the poor prisoner had
managed to bring it with her, and had found a convenient hiding-place
for her treasure in this chair, which she had watered with her tears."
"I had read but a few words when I was interrupted; but those words
were engraven on my mind as with a pen of steel. They were these: 'God
so loved the world that he gave his only son for the intent that none
that believe in him should perish, but should have everlasting life.
For God sent not his son into the world to condemn the world, but that
the world through him might be saved.'"
"Rosamond, I was as a man walking through desolate moors and among
quaking bogs and thorny thickets, to whom a flash of light from Heaven
showed for one moment the right and safe road. It was but a glimpse.
I had no more time to read then, nor for some hours after; but that
night, in recreation, I did find time for a few more verses. By the
first peep of light next morning I was up and at my window, and
thenceforth the morning star seldom found me sleeping. I placed the
book of the Gospel inside my prayer-book, for better concealment, but
after I had once read it through, and for fear it might be taken from
me, I learned it all off by heart."
"I remember how we used to smile at your early rising," said I; "we
little thought what you were about."
"This went on for a while," continued Amice, (I set down her own words
as near as I can remember them): "and then I came near a discovery. You
know how light of foot was Mistress Anne. Well, one day, when I had
ventured, as I seldom did, to take out my book while I was waiting in
the Queen's anteroom, she came behind me and peeped over my shoulder,
and before I could hinder, snatched the leaves from my hand. I thought
then that all was lost; but after teasing me awhile in her childish
fashion, she gave me back my treasure, and said she would get me a
better book than that, even the whole New Testament, done into fair
English by one Master Tyndale."
"But mind!" she added, "I don't stand sponsor for all his notions, and
I wont be answerable for the consequences to yourself. This much I may
say. 'Twas a very learned and good man gave me the book, and he says
'tis true to the original Greek, out of which it was translated by
Master Tyndale."
"And have you read it?" I asked her.
"Not I," says she, "save only a chapter, here and there; but let me
tell you, Mistress Amice, if this book gains ground, as 'tis like to
do, your priests and nuns and mitred abbots will fly away like ghosts
and owls before the sunrising. Nay, unless some I know are the more
mistaken, the cock has crowed already."
"That very night she gave me the book, and before she left, she added
another which was sent her from London, namely Master Tyndale's
exposition of certain passages. But I cared not so much for that, as
for the other. Then came the sickness, when the discipline of the house
being so much relaxed, I had more time to read and study and compare.
Rosamond, how amazed was I to find that there is in the New Testament
no single hint of any worship being paid to our Lord's mother—nay, our
Lord Himself saying, that those who did His Father's will, were even to
Him as His own mother."
"'Tis not the right Gospel," said I. "Why Amice, only think how our
Lady is honored throughout all Christendom. Depend upon it, you have
been deceived."
"Who would dare to carry out such a deception?" said she. "Every
learned man in Christendom would be against him."
I cannot now write down all she said, as how she had found the teaching
of our Lord so much more simple and plain, than those in the lives of
the saints—how Himself had declared that whosoever did but believe on
Him, had already everlasting life—how Christ being already offered for
sin, there was no more sacrifice, but all was perfected in Him; and
much more which I did not, and do not yet understand. But she ended
by saying, that she could no longer keep silence, since the Lord had
commanded all to confess Him before men, and had declared that He would
deny all who did not thus confess Him.
"I cannot die with a lie on my lips," she said. "I dare not thus go
into the presence of my God, where I must soon stand; for God doth hate
lying above measure, inasmuch as He hath declared that all liars shall
have their part in the second death. Besides, were it not utterly base
to deny Him, who hath done and will do so much for me?"
I used many arguments with her, but could prevail nothing, even when
I spoke of Mother Gertrude and her sorrow, at which Amice wept so
vehemently, that I was alarmed; but when she was again composed, she
said she had thought of that many times, and with many prayers and
tears, but yet she could see her duty in no other way.
Oh, I cannot tell all she said. I would I could remember and set
down every word, but much has gone from me. She bade me take comfort
concerning her, when she was gone, saying that nothing they could do
would work her any real injury. She told me how happy her new faith had
made her, despite many perplexities concerning her duty—how at the last
she had seen her way clear, and what peace she had felt in the thought
that her free salvation had been provided for in Christ, and she had
but to believe, and be saved.
"What, even if you were wicked?" said I.
"Don't you see, dear Rosamond, that one who really believed in our Lord
could not be wicked? If he really and truly believed that the Lord died
for him, he would desire to do what that Lord commanded, and to be like
Him. He would know that Christ makes keeping His commands the very test
of faith and love, even as He saith: 'He that hath my commands and
keepeth them, He it is that loveth me.'"
I asked what she had done with her Testament, and she told me she had
given it to Magdalen Jewell, knowing that she should need it no longer.
"There are many things therein which I don't understand, but they will
soon be made plain," said she. "Is it not almost morning, Rosamond?
Draw the curtain and see."
I did so. Lo the dawn was stealing on, and in the east shone, glorious
to see, the morning star.
"There is the emblem of my Lord!" said Amice, clasping her hands;
"There is the bright and morning star. It is the last dawning I shall
see on earth! To-morrow. Rosamond, and whenever you think of me,
remember that I am resting where there is no need of sun or moon: 'For
the brightness of God did lighten it, and the Lamb was the light of
it.' 'They shall hunger no more neither thirst any more, neither shall
the sun light on them nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst
of the seat shall feed them and shall lead them unto fountains of
living waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'"
"Is that out of the Scripture?" I ventured to ask.
"Aye, that and many more precious promises. Rosamond, you are far more
of a scholar than I. If you have a chance, do not you neglect to study
the Scripture for yourself. And now farewell, best, dearest friend, for
I hear the Sister going to ring the bell, and Mother Gertrude will soon
be here."
Oh, that last embrace! I dare not dwell upon it! It was too much for
Amice, who fell back fainting. I called Mother Gertrude, who was
already astir, and together we revived her. Then Mother Gertrude,
seeing, I suppose, by my looks, how much I was overcome, gave me a
composing drink and sent me to bed. I was long in falling asleep, but
I did at last, and when I waked all was over. I heard afterward how
it was. Seeing that Amice was clearly near her end, the Sisters were
assembled in her room, as usual, for the last rite.
Then she spoke with a clear and plain voice, declaring that having had
her mind enlightened by Holy Scripture, and as she believed also by
light from on high, she did utterly contemn and repudiate all worship
and honor of images and pictures, all prayers to our Lady and the
Saints, and all trust whatever for salvation in forms and ceremonies,
in penances, indulgences, or any such toys; placing her hopes of
salvation upon Christ alone. Having said which, (but mentioning naught
of Magdalen Jewell's escape,) she repeated in a clear voice and with
(as Sister Placida told me,) a countenance more like a beatified Saint
than a dying heretic, these words from the Psalm: "Into thy hands I
commend my spirit, for thou hast redeemed me, O Lord, thou God of
truth."
And then sinking back and clasping her hands, she yielded up the ghost.
'Twas a terrible shock and surprise to all, for Amice had been devout
from a child, using many prayers, and as much of watching and fasting
as her superiors would permit; and nobody, not even Sister Catherine,
doubted that she had a true vocation.
Mother Gertrude fainted on the spot, and revived only to fall into
fits, to which, it seems, she was formerly subject. All the Sisters
fled from the room, and the poor body lay unwatched and uncared for
till night, when it was hastily and with little ceremony buried in the
far corner of the cemetery, by the side of that poor secluded lady, who
had, as it were, left this legacy of trouble behind her.
Sister Placida (she is Mother Placida now, having been put in the place
of dear Mother Gertrude, who is far too feeble to perform any duty,)
Sister Placida, I say, told me these things when I was recovering from
my long illness. She professed to be very hard and severe toward the
poor thing, but I could see her heart yearned over her, and indeed she
ended by a great burst of weeping, and declaring that she would never
cease to pray for the soul of Amice Crocker, adding that the prayers,
if they did no good, could do no harm, and might serve some other poor
soul in Purgatory.
I had just waked from my long and heavy sleep, and was striving to
collect my thoughts and calm my throbbing head, when Sister Catherine
burst in on me with the news that Amice was gone; and after recounting
the manner of her death, added that now one might see what came of
favoritism and book-learning, and court preferment; and thanking the
Saints, as usual, for her lowly station and for the grace of humility
which they had vouchsafed to obtain for her. She added, that as the
bosom friend and confident of that lost heretic, I should doubtless
be severely dealt by, and adjured me to make a full confession and
recantation, as in that case I might be let off with perpetual
imprisonment.
Whether any such purposes were entertained against me I know not, but I
do not greatly believe it; at any rate, they were not carried out; for
that very hour I was taken with an ague chill, which turned to a long
and low fever, lasting I know not how many weeks, during which I lay
mostly in a low, muttering delirium, knowing nobody, and talking, when
I could be understood, only of my childish life at home, and my lessons
with my mother and Master Ellenwood. Even I after the fever left me,
I was as weak as any babe, for a long time, and as I had been removed
from my usual place and put in a cell opening from Mother Superior's
part of the house, where I saw nobody but herself, Mother Placida and
Sister Bonaventure, who brought my food, I heard nothing of what was
going on in the house.
I was very much better, and able to sit up some hours and work a
little, when, one day, I was aware of a somewhat unusual bustle in the
house, and by-and-by Mother Superior and Mother Placida came to me.
"The Bishop is here, and desires you may be brought before him," said
Mother Superior. She spoke calmly, as usual, but I saw that she was
disturbed and flurried. They helped me to dress, and then supporting
me each by an arm, they led me into Mother Superior's private room,
where the Reverend Prelate sat in her great chair, with Father Fabian
standing behind him.
His Lordship, though very grave, was kind and fatherly, as when I had
seen him before. He would have me sit, after I had knelt to him on
entering, and then before Father Fabian and the two Mothers he began
questioning me about Amice. Had I ever suspected her of any leaning
toward heresy? Had we ever talked on the subject? Did I know what books
she had had, and how she had gained them?
At the answer to this last question, "that I believed she had found
a part at least of what she had, concealed in a chair in the Queen's
room," I saw the Bishop and Father Fabian look on each other. Then he
asked me whether I had been intimate with Mrs. Bullen; to which I said
decidedly no! That I did not like her, nor she me, and we kept apart as
much as possible.
"That is well!" said he. "The woman is a pest, and will be a greater."
Then he asked me of my own opinions, to which I answered that I had
never thought of believing save as I had been taught, which was quite
true at that time, whatever may be the case now. I believe I satisfied
him at last, for he kindly gave me his blessing, and said there was no
need of my being secluded longer—which by the way was the first time I
had known I was secluded at all. But he gave me many sharp and solemn
cautions about meddling with matters too high for me, which certainly
I had no mind to do at that time, being mortally tired, and wanting
nothing so much as to get back to bed.
At last I was dismissed, and Mother Placida kissed me, even with tears,
and said how glad she was all was well, and farther relieved her heart
by bringing me for dinner twice as much of all sorts of nice things as
I could eat, and a cup of her fragrant rose cordial, which I know she
treasures as if it were a draught from the water of life.
When I got about the house again—which was not for some days—I found
many, and some sad changes. Poor Mother Gertrude sat in the sun,
spinning of fine thread, and looking far more aged and feeble even than
Mother Mary Monica. She seemed hardly to know me at first, and when she
did, was so troubled and distressed that I hardly could pacify her. I
found a stranger holding the place of Mother Assistant, a hard-looking
woman, with sharp black eyes, which seemed to see everything at once.
Sister Clare told me she was a nun from the house at Exeter, and added
that nobody liked her except Sister Catherine, who was very great with
her.
I could see that the reins were tightened up in every way. More work
was done, and the hours of prayer and silence were multiplied. Sister
Clare also told me that the elder nuns were much dissatisfied with
having a stranger put over them; and that after Amice's death, the
whole household had kept a nine days' fast and devotion, to expiate the
sin of having harbored an apostate. But we had little talk together;
for Mother Assistant encountering us bade us remember the rule of
particular friendships, and sent Sister Catherine to join us, which
of course put an end to all conversation but her own. She had much to
say about the improvements in the family, and as to how it would be
impossible in future for any one to fall into such disorders as had
obtained among the younger members of the family.
I escaped as soon as I could, and went away by myself to the corner
where poor Amice lay buried. I could not be sure of the exact place,
for the ground was levelled flat and made bare for some distance.
Somebody had sowed grass seed, which was already beginning to come up;
and seeing many lily of the valley roots lying about on the grass,
I ventured to replace them in the soil, where I hope they are now
blooming.
For a good many days after I got up, I was very feeble, and fit for
none but the lightest work. I could not even embroider, because
mine eyes were weak; so I fell back upon making of cherry-tree and
strawberry-nets against summer; and on my knitting, which I found a
great resource. Also I took to learning by heart such Psalms as I did
not know, and whole chapters of "The Imitation of Christ," and found
great comfort therein.
'Twas drawing toward Christmas-tide, and very warm and mild for the
season. I was gathering such late flowers as still bloomed in sheltered
spots, to decorate the shrine in the Lady Chapel, when Mother Placida
came to tell me that some one had come to see me, and I was to go to
Mother Superior's parlor without delay. A little thing sufficed to
disturb me in those days; and I was already trembling and flurried,
when I entered the parlor. The first person I saw was my father,
looking much better in health and spirits than when I saw him last, and
with him a fine, handsome lady.
Mother Superior was present behind the grating, and looked strangely
disturbed and troubled. My father raised me in his arms and kissed me
tenderly, and then turning to the lady, he said:
"This is my daughter Rosamond, Julia. Rosamond, this lady is my wife
and your mother, to whom I trust you will pay all childly duty and
courtesy."
It could but have been something of a shock to me to know that my
father was married again. Still if I had had warning and a little time
to consider the matter, I trust I should not have been wanting in my
duty to my honored father and his wife. As it was, I am ashamed to say
that after staring at the lady for a moment, I dropped in a dead faint
at her feet.
When I began to revive, I felt the fresh air blowing on my face, and
heard the rustle of leaves above me, but a leaden weight seemed to
press down my eyelids, so that I could not open them. Kind hands were
busy about me, and I presently heard a decided but clear and cheery
voice say, "She is coming to herself!"
"I will leave you together!" said Mother Superior's voice, still
sounding as in a dream. Then came a warm hand laid on mine and a
kiss pressed on my forehead. At last I opened mine eyes. They fell
on a very pleasant object—a lady of about my own mother's age, but
perhaps handsomer, though in a different way—somewhat dark, with a
beautiful color, bright brown eyes and well-marked eyebrows—the whole
visage bearing the marks of a keen, clear-sighted but withal kindly
disposition. The dress was rich, but sober and matronly. I looked long
and as it were in a kind of bewilderment, till with a kindly smile,
"Well, child, take a good look at me!" she said. "Do I look like a
monster, or the cruel step-dames in the ballads?"
"No indeed, Madam!" I answered, feeling all the blood rush to my face
in a flood. "I am sure you look like a good-natured gentlewoman. It was
only that I was so taken by surprise, not knowing or thinking of any
such thing."
"I see—I see!" she interrupted. "Did you not know, then? Your father
sent letters more than two weeks before us."
"I have heard nothing of them," I answered.
"Poor child, no wonder you were taken aback!" said my step-dame.
"Well, Rosamond, here I am, as you see. I trust to be able to make
your father a good wife, and to supply to you in some degree the place
of the mother you have lost. I cannot ask you to give me all at once
the affection which a child owes her mother. That would be out of all
reason. What I do ask is that you will not judge me beforehand, nor
conclude that I must needs be a tyrant because I am a step-dame, but
use your own eyes and judgment and persuade your brother to do the
same. Your mother, so far as I have learned, was a saint. I am no
saint, but a faulty woman—yet I trust I am a Christian woman, and one
who means to do her duty."
What could I say to this, but that I would strive to do my part, and
be a dutiful and loving child to her. With that I kissed her hand, and
she my cheek, and we went to find my father, whom we found walking the
parlor in evident perturbation, which, however, seemed to clear up as
we entered.
"Why, that's well," said he; then changing his tone, "but what have
they been doing to you, child? Why, you are but the ghost of yourself!"
"I have been very ill, dear father," I answered. "I have had a long
fever which lasted many weeks, and from which nobody thought I would
rise again."
"And why was I not apprised thereof? You are no nun as yet, I trow, to
be cut off from your family and natural friends. What say you, my Lady?
Shall we take this faded rose of ours home, and see if it will not
revive in its native soil?"
"Indeed, I think 'twould be a wise move," answered my Lady. "Change
of air is always reckoned good in these cases, and, besides, I want
Rosamond to help me settle myself in my new home. What says she?
Sweetheart, would you like to go with us to Corby End?"
Oh, how my heart leaped at the thought of seeing home once more! I
could not speak, but I kissed my father's hand.
"Her face says yes," says my step-dame, smiling.
"And are you then so ready to leave old friends for new, Rosamond?"
said Mother Superior, reproachfully. "Your mother who gave you to this
holy house would hardly have approved such readiness to leave it."
I thought this, I must needs say, an ill-judged speech, and I saw
my step-dame's cheek flush, though she said not a word. My father,
however, answered somewhat hotly, as is his wont when chafed in his
humor:
"My daughter, Madam, is not yet professed, and is therefore under the
rule of her father."
I saw Mother Superior's eye kindle, for she too hath a spark of temper,
and I dreaded some unpleasant debate, but my step-dame interposed, and
by I know not what gentle and honeyed words of courtesy, she managed to
avert the storm. She urged my evidently failing health, her own want of
my assistance, and the need of my seeing somewhat of the world before
making my profession; and finally, I hardly know how, 'twas settled
that I should go home for a while.
I could have sung for joy. True, I felt it would be a trial for me
to see a strange lady, be she ever so well conditioned, in my dear
mother's place, and ruling where she ruled; and I had also some fears
as to how Harry would take the change, and I foresaw trouble with Mrs.
Prudence. But all was swallowed up in the overwhelming joy of going
home. Ever since Amice died, the house hath seemed to me like a prison,
as if I had no space to move and no air to breathe.
We were to leave that afternoon and travel by short stages, as my
weakness would permit. Before I left, I had a long audience with Mother
Superior, who mourned over me as over a tender lamb going forth in the
midst of wolves. She gave me much council as to how I should behave—how
I should seclude myself as far as possible from all worldly society,
specially men's society, and, above all, I should keep aloof from my
cousin if any chance threw him in my way. I was to remember always that
I was the same as a vowed and cloistered nun, and to observe always
the rules of my Heavenly Bridegroom's house, recollecting the examples
of those saints who had set at naught father and mother, friends and
children, for the sake of a religious life; and she told me of a lady,
formerly a nun in this house, who being a widow with three children,
left them to whoever would care for them, and betook herself to the
convent; and when the eldest son, a lad of some twelve years, threw
himself across the threshold of the door with tears and besought her
not to leave them, she just stepped over his prostrate body and went
her way.
Now, I had my own thoughts on this matter. I thought the woman a horrid
wretch, nor did I believe Heaven would smile on such an unnatural
mother. Moreover, it seemed to me, that in my father's house, I should
properly be under his rule, and that of my step-dame, his Lady. But I
have learned one thing, at least, in my convent education, namely, to
hear all and say nothing; and indeed I was grieved to part with her
who hath been a second mother to me. So I strove to content her in
all things, and she bade me farewell with many tears and blessings.
'Twas the same with all the mothers and sisters, save the new Mother
Assistant and Sister Catherine. These two take more on themselves all
the time, and I am much mistaken if Mother Superior does not sometime
show them that she is a Vernon, and mistress in her own house to boot.
How delightful it was, despite my weakness, to find myself once more
on horseback, behind my father, breathing the free air of the moor,
and seeing the wide world, not shut in by high stone walls and waving
trees—meeting the kindly glances and greetings of the serving-men,
feeling myself drawing nearer home with every step, and recognizing one
familiar tree and hill after another.
We stopped one night at the house of my Lady Gardener, who is a
kinswoman of ours. Here my step-dame would have me go at once to bed,
and I was glad to do so, for I was very tired, being weak and unused
to the motion of a horse for so long. Lady Gardener was full of some
nostrum which she had got from a travelling friar, and which was to
cure everything in the world; but my step-dame staved off the dose, I
don't know how, and that for a wonder, without offending our hostess;
persuading her that some of her excellent junkets and cream, with a cup
of wine whey, would be far better for me.
"'Tis not dosing you want, sweetheart!" said my step-dame, as she came
to see me eat my supper. "You are young, and ought to be able to get
well of yourself. Besides, I have no fancy for friar's nostrums and
medicines, whereof I know nothing."
In all of which I quite agreed with her.
I was much better next day, and able to renew my journey with good
courage; and now I found I had great news to hear, as namely, that the
proud Cardinal was out of favor, and like to be wholly disgraced; and
what struck me even more, that his Majesty had, after all this time,
waked up to the fact that he had married his brother's widow—that his
conscience—Heaven save the mark!—was disquieted thereat, and that he
was moving Heaven and earth, and perhaps, as my step-dame said, some
other place for a divorce. My Lady was wholly on the Queen's side, and
said some very sharp things.
"But if his Majesty's conscience be engaged?" said my father.
"Oh, his conscience—his conscience would have done better, methinks,
to have slept altogether, since it had slumbered till the Queen grew
an old woman. His conscience was easy enough till Mistress Bullen came
from France."
And here she seemed to remember my presence, for she said no more.
For mine own part her words seemed to throw light on many things, and
specially on the business of the diamond ring which had moved the Queen
so strangely.
Doubtless this was the grief which weighed so heavy on the poor lady's
heart, and for which she had sought comfort in vain at the shrine of
St. Ethelburga.
Well, we reached home in safety, and were soon settled down in an
orderly way of living, my Lady seeming somehow to establish her sway
perfectly, with very little trouble or contention. I think she is one
of those people born to rule, to whom government comes easy.
I saw but little of the process, being taken down with a new access of
my fever, which lasted two or three weeks. Harry told me afterward she
had no trouble with anybody but Prudence and Alice. Alice thought her
dignity as a matron, and the prospects of the baby were injured, by
my father's presuming to take a second wife. She thought he ought to
remain single for the sake of his children; though I don't think she
ever thought of remaining single for his sake. However, she thinks that
is different, and perhaps it may be, a little.
Harry is thoroughly pleased, and when I hear from him how matters went
on—how Prue tyrannized, and the maids rebelled, and how uncomfortable
the whole household was made, especially my father, I do not wonder. My
Lady being just what she is, I can honestly say, I am heartily glad of
her coming among us, though I can't but speculate what it might be if
my father had fancied a different kind of woman—somebody like Sister
Catherine, for instance.
Master Ellenwood was away when we came home, on a visit to his sisters
in Bristol; but he returned just when I was getting about, and in
time for the Christmas holidays. I could see that he was shocked at
first. He worshipped my dear mother as a kind of saint, and though
they did not agree on some matters—in my spending so much time on
fine needlework, for instance, when he would fain have kept me at my
Latin—yet they never had a word of disagreement, and they used to have
many conferences on religious and spiritual matters. But he quite
agreed with Harry and me that the change was a good one for my father
and the rest of the household, and he and my Lady were presently good
friends.
My step-dame is quite in favor of my taking up my lessons again when my
health is once more established. She says she has known many learned
ladies who were none the worse housekeepers and managers for that, and
she instanced my young Lady Latymer, daughter of Sir Thomas Parr, whose
father gave her a most excellent education, even to having her taught
the Greek tongue. This lady is my step-dame's great friend, and quite
a pattern in the court for her piety and discretion. My Lady says she
hopes I may some day make her acquaintance.
[So I did; but before that time came she had passed through many
strange mutations of fortune, having become first a widow, then a
Queen, then a widow again, and at last a most unhappy wife, when she
married Sir Thomas Seymor, Lord High Admiral, and died in child-bed not
long after. She wrote many excellent pieces, both in prose and verse,
two of which, "The Complaint of a Penitent Sinner," and "Prayers and
Meditations," I had a present from this godly and afflicted lady's own
hand.]
I was about again in time to witness the Christmas revels, though not
to take any great part in them. Alice and her husband were here with
their boy, and I think my Lady hath quite won Alice's heart by her
attention to the brat, which took to her wonderfully. I saw my Lady's
eyes soften and fill with tears as she held the child in her arms and
looked on its little waxen face.
"Alice, my child, God hath given you a great treasure!" said she, and
presently more softly, "Methinks fathers and mothers should have a
greater and deeper sense of God's love toward his fallen creatures than
any one else. How much must you love any one before you could give the
life of this babe for him?"
I don't think this remark struck Alice so much as it did me, but I
pondered on it many times afterward. I had often been reminded of our
Lady when I had seen a mother and babe, but it had never occurred to me
to think so much of God's love. When I repeated the saying to Master
Ellenwood, he said:
"Your new mother is a most precious lady, Mistress Rosamond. I believe
she will be a blessing to this house."
Since the Christmas revels, our time has passed quietly enough. I have
had two or three attacks of my fever, but not so severe, and seem
gradually getting the better of it. Prudence would fain keep me shut
in my chamber, on the lowest diet, and the strongest physic, because
she says it stands to reason that a fever needs bringing down. But to
this my Lady will by no means agree. She will have me eat heartily,
specially of cream, and take no medicine but a certain aromatic and
bitter cordial, which certainly does strengthen me wonderfully.
I have heard not a word from the convent since I left, and my father
will by no means hear of my going back at present. I am glad of it, for
I am very happy at home, and after what has passed, it does not seem as
though I could ever breathe under that roof again. This home life is so
sweet! I do not see how any vocation can be higher than that of a wife
and mother, blessing and profiting all about her, as certainly my Lady
does. But all homes are not like mine, I know very well—and then that
promise!
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