_June 30._
A GREAT event has happened, so unexpected that I don't believe it even
yet.
Three days ago, as we were all sitting at supper, comes in Thomas and
says, "Here is a gentleman from Cornwall to see you, Sir Stephen."
"Have him in, man!" says my father. "Would you keep him waiting?"
"Nay, but he is so bespattered with his journey," says Thomas, "and
wearied as well. He says his name is Penrose."
"Penrose—Penrose—the name hath a familiar ring;" said my father,
musingly, and then: "Bid him never mind his spatters, but bring him in.
He must needs be sore wearied and wet too, riding in this storm."
The gentleman presently entered—an elderly man and thin—his riding
dress plain, almost to shabbiness. My father rose courteously to
receive him.
"You do not know me, Stephen," says the stranger: "yet we have been
playmates many a day at Tremador Court—"
"Joslyn Penrose!" exclaimed my father, and then ensued a cordial
greeting enow.
"And how is my good aunt?" asked my father presently. "She is an old
lady by this time."
"She is gone where are neither old nor young," answered the stranger,
sadly. "My good old friend and patroness was buried more than ten days
ago. You should have been bidden to the funeral, but the weather was
warm, and we had to hasten matters."
"'Tis just as well!" said my father. "I don't believe she would have
asked me if she had had her way, for I was never in her good graces
since the day I was so maladroit as to kill her cat with my cross-bow.
'Twas a mere piece of ill-luck, for I would not have hurt a hair of
poor puss if I had only seen her. Well, she is gone, and peace to her
soul! I hope she has made thee her heir, after all these years, Joslyn!"
"Nay, that she has not!" answered Master Penrose. "'Tis even that which
has brought me here."
"The old cat!" exclaimed my father.
"Wait till you hear, before you condemn!" answered our guest.
But here my mother interposed. The gentleman was surely too weary and
hungry to be kept discoursing of business. He should be shown to his
chamber, and then come to supper with us, before he said another word.
"And so she has kept Jos Penrose waiting on her like a slave all these
years, managing for her, and serving her more like a servant than a
kinsman, only to bilk him at last," said my father.
"I would not have been kept waiting!" said Harry. "I would have struck
out something for myself."
"You would not if you had been Joslyn," answered my father. "He was not
one to do so. He could manage well enough for others, but never could
keep two groats together for himself. Besides that his life was spoiled
by a woman, as many another man's life has been, and will be. Take
care, Harry, my son, that you pay him all due kindness and deference."
By this time our guest had come back, and was soon seated at the table,
each of us being presented to him in turn. When my turn came, Master
Penrose looked earnestly at me, as if he had some special interest in
me.
"So this is the young lady," said he, smiling somewhat sadly. "In
truth, though favor may be deceitful and beauty vain, as the wise man
said, Mistress Rosamond hath that in her face that makes me rejoice in
her good fortune."
"Rosamond is a good maiden, as maidens go," said my father: "but what
mean you, Joslyn? What good fortune hath befallen her? Has my aunt left
her guardian of her popinjay, or given her the reversion of that black
damask gown, I remember so well?"
"More than that!" answered Master Penrose. "Mistress Rosamond is sole
heir to Tremador, and all its appurtenances. 'Tis a fine estate, for
our part of the world—not less than an hundred and fifty a year, though
saddled with a life annuity of twenty pounds a year to myself. Also,
I am to have my nest for life in the old tower where I have lived
so long, and a seat at table and in hall, unless Mistress Rosamond
objects."
"Mistress Rosamond is no child of her father's if she does!" said Sir
Stephen. "But are you sure? 'Tis passing strange! I thought she would
make you her heir, or else leave all to the convent yonder. Rosamond
was her namesake, 'tis true, but she has never taken any more notice of
the child than to send her some old-fashioned gewgaws once on a time.
'Tis not right nor fair, Joslyn! You should have been the heir, and not
my daughter."
"Nay, I am well content!" answered Master Penrose. "My wants are few,
and if Mistress Rosamond will let me live where I have lived so long, I
shall not trouble her many years."
My mother looked at me, and made me a sign to speak; and though I was
so covered with confusion that I could hardly find words, I did manage
to say that, so far as I had any voice in the matter, I hoped Master
Penrose would always make my aunt's house his home. Then Master Penrose
kissed my hand and made me a pretty old-fashioned compliment; and I
was so confused and stunned with it all, that I think, like a fool, I
should have burst out crying, only that my mother, seeing my trouble,
came to my aid and rose from the table.
"We will leave you to talk over matters by yourselves," said she,
courteously. "Rosamond is somewhat overcome, and no wonder."
When I was alone with my Lady, I soon recovered myself. She does not
like to have me weep, and I am learning self-control. We talked the
matter over, and I said what I felt; that I could not think my aunt had
done right—that she should have made Master Penrose her heir, and not a
stranger, whom she had never even seen.
"People, even very good people, often make very strange and unjust
wills," said my Lady; and with that she sighed somewhat sadly. "But we
will not conclude that your aunt's will is of this kind, till we know
something more of the circumstances. She may have had good reasons for
the arrangement. You heard what your father said about Master Penrose,
that though a good manager for others, he could never keep too groats
together for himself. Some notion of this kind may have governed my old
Lady Tremador in leaving him only an annuity."
"I am sorry about this, for one reason," said I, presently. "People
will say I chose a secular life, because I had this fortune left me."
My mother smiled. "Shall I tell you a motto I saw once in Scotland?"
said she. "'Twas graven over a door, and ran thus—'They haf said—What
said they? Let them say!' 'Twas an odd motto for such a place, was it
not? But it may serve well enough for us. Many things will be said
about your choice, without doubt, but what matter? Let them say."
"Yet one cannot be indifferent to what folks say of one," quoth I: "and
I hardly know if it is right to be so."
"It is not right to be so indifferent as to provoke comment
needlessly," answered my Lady; "but when we know that we have done
right, we must be content to leave the rest."
My Lady then saying that I looked weary, sent me to bed, and I saw our
guest no more that night.
I feel well acquainted and at ease with him now, however, and shall,
I hope, be more so. 'Tis settled that next week we are all—that is my
father, mother, Harry and myself—to go to Tremador to take possession,
and see what is to be done in the way of repairs and the like. Master
Penrose journeys with us. My father would gladly have taken Master
Ellenwood, on whose judgment he relies greatly in business matters,
but Master Ellenwood expects his brother from Amsterdam to make him a
visit. Master Jasper is said to be a wonderful scholar, a friend of
Erasmus, and very deep in the new learning, both Greek and Latin.
My mother, who has been in Amsterdam with her first husband, says she
fears our housekeeping will seem very rough and sluttish to Master
Jasper's Dutch notions. She tells me that in Holland they strew no
rushes on the floors even of their dining-halls, but that the floors
are made of fine inlaid woods or stones, and the same are washed or
rubbed with fine sand every day, and then waxed till they shine like
glass. Madam herself is counted over particular by our men and maids
because she will have all the rushes renewed and the rooms thoroughly
swept every week instead of every month, as used to be the way. Also,
we will have no rushes in her chamber or mine, saying that they breed
fleas and other vermin, and hide the dust. Certainly the air in our
house is far sweeter than I remember it formerly. But it seems a great
deal of trouble to wash floors every day, and I should think would be
damp and unwholesome. Probably in Holland a little water more or less
does not matter.
My Lady has told me much of the comfort and splendor in which the
Dutch merchants live, of their beautiful pictures, presenting flowers
and other objects in all the hues of life, of their noble collections
of books, and the quantities of fine house linen, garments, and other
things which their wives lay up and provide against the marriage of
their daughters. I remember Mother Monica telling Amice and me that
in her day the merchants of London lived in far more comfort than the
nobles and courtiers.
This journey into Cornwall, which seems like a perilous adventure to
me, my Lady makes nothing of, save as she seems to enjoy the thoughts
of it. My father is going to stop on the way at the house of Sir
John Carey, who hath long owed him a sum of money. He is a kinsman
of our neighbors at Clovelly, but they know little of him, save that
he last year lost his only son in some very sad way, that I did not
clearly understand. Sir John is now old and feeble, and hath more than
once sent asking my father to come and see him, but it hath not been
convenient hitherto.
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