_July 20, Tremador, in Cornwall._
HERE we are, at this grim, sad old house, which yet hath a wonderful
charm to me, maybe because it is my house. It seems such a surprising
thing to call a house mine. We have been here three or four days, and
I am not yet weary of exploring the old rooms, and asking questions of
Mistress Grace, my aunt's old bower-woman. The good soul took to me
at once, and answers all my queries with the most indulgent patience.
Albeit I am sometimes sore put to understand her. Mistress Grace, it
is true, speaks English, though with a strong Cornish accent; but some
of the servants and almost all the cottagers speak the Cornish tongue,
which is as unknown as Greek to me. Master Penrose, or Cousin Joslyn,
as he likes best to have me call him, who is very learned, says the
language is related to the Welsh.
Mistress Grace has also been very much interested in dressing up poor
Joyce. She has made the child a nice suit out of an old one of her
Lady's, combed and arranged her tangled hair, and so forth, and 'tis
wonderful how different Joyce looks. She is really very lovely. She
seems to like me well, but clings most to my Lady, whom she would fain
follow like a little dog, I think. I wish she would get over that way
of shrinking and looking so scared when any one speaks to her; but I
dare say that will come in time, poor thing. My mother says 'tis a
wonder she hath any sense left. But what a way is this of writing a
chronicle! I must begin, and orderly set down the events of our journey
as they happened.
It took some days to make our preparations, for my mother would have
me in suitable mourning before setting out. She said it was no more
than due respect to our aunt's memory, seeing what she had done for me.
'Twas like putting on my old convent weeds again; and strange to say,
seemed as new to me as if I had not worn black all my life long. Dick
(who has been away on some business of my Lord's,) coming in upon me in
the twilight, started as if he had seen a ghost.
"I thought we had seen the last of that!" said he. "Rosamond, I thought
you had done with the convent forever!"
"And so I have!" I answered; and told him how it was. Methought he did
not seem so well pleased as I should have been, had such a piece of
good luck befallen him.
"They will be more loth than ever to give you up!" said he. "The estate
of Tremador would be a fine windfall for them! Rosamond, you have need
to be on your guard! They will not let you go without a struggle. Pray
be careful and do not wander away by yourself, especially while you are
on the journey, or in Cornwall."
"Why, what do you fear for me?" I asked. "You are not used to be so
timid." I wished the words unsaid in a moment, for I saw that they hurt
him.
"'Tis not for myself, if I am timid!" he answered me, with a look of
reproach; "but I suppose plain Dick Stanton, the son of a younger son,
must not be too free with the heiress of Tremador!"
A year ago, I suppose, we should have had our quarrel out and made it
up again in our old childish fashion; but I did not feel like that now.
"Richard," says I, "did you learn that fashion of speech out of the
book you would not lend me that day in the maze? For I too have been
studying it, and I have found no such thing, but on the contrary a good
deal about thinking no evil," says I.
He had turned to go, but was back at my side in a moment. "Forgive me,
Rosamond!" he whispered; "I am very wrong!"
"That indeed you are!" said I. "Why should my aunt's will make any
difference between us, who have been playmates from the time we were
little children?"
"But we are not little children now!" he answered me, with a strange
break in his voice. "We are not children now, and never can be again:
and oh, Rosamond, I have been cherishing such sweet hopes ever since I
heard that you had given up being a nun!"
I don't know what more he might have said, but my father came in just
then, and would have all the news of Dick's journey; and we were not
alone again.
"Richard and my Lord rode one stage with us beyond Biddeford. My Lord
and my father were deep in converse (the roads being good for the first
stage, we were able to ride two abreast), and Richard rode by my side,
Harry as usual being close to my mother. But there was little chance
for any private converse, and I think we were both very silent. My Lord
would send one of his own men with us as an additional guard, though
methinks our own three, with my father and Harry, should be enough.
"I would loan you Dick here, but that he is my right-hand man—I cannot
spare him," said my Lord, as we parted. "Take care of your heart,
my fair cousin, and do not lose it to any of the Cornish knights.
Remember, 'Better a poor neighbor than a rich stranger.'"
"Aye, my Lord, but there is another proverb—'Better kind strangers than
strange kin,'" I answered.
"What, have you and Dick quarrelled? Nay, I shall not have that!"
whispered my Lord in mine ear, as he gave my cheek a parting salute.
"Be kind to him, my Rose of May! He was faithful to you when he had
many a temptation to be otherwise."
Richard kissed my cheek, as usual, at parting, but there was that in
his look and the pressure of his hand—
[I don't know why I should have drawn my pen through this, as it seems
I did. I suppose I could not yet feel that 'twas no sin to think of my
cousin. I knew then that Dick loved me, and from my Lord's whisper, I
could guess well enough that he was no ways averse to the match, and
yet I felt, I know not how, as if I had committed a mortal sin for
which yet I could not repent. The truth was, I could not yet quite come
to feel that I was a free woman, at least under no law but my father's
will. I know I rode in a kind of dream all the rest of that day.]
We reached the end of our stage about four of the clock, tired and
wearied enough, yet with no adventures more than those which I believe
befall all travellers, of tired beasts and men, plentiful splashes of
mud, and once or twice a horse stuck fast in the mire and hardly got
out again. Cousin Joslyn being with us, we were in no danger of missing
the road, as we should otherwise have been, and our numbers were great
enough to keep in awe any bands of robbers that we were likely to meet
in these parts.
We stayed the first night at a farm-house, where the good yeoman and
his wife made us heartily welcome to the best they had of fowls, bacon,
clotted cream, and I know not what country dainties, and we in return
for their hospitality told them the last news from London and the
Court. They had heard something even in this odd corner of the world of
the good Queen's disgrace, and the women were eager for particulars.
"'Tis all the fault of the new doctrines—those pestilent heresies that
crawl over the land like palmer worms," said a begging friar, a guest
like ourselves, but methought scarce so welcome. "'Tis they have put
these maggots in the King's head."
"Nay, I think you are wrong there," answered my father. "'Tis true,
Mistress Anne is reported for a Lutheran, and maybe some of the same
sort may build hopes on her advancement; but Luther himself has lifted
his voice manfully against the divorce, and Tyndale—he who has set
forth this new translation of the Gospels—"
"The curses of Mother Church and all the saints upon him!" interrupted
the friar, spitting in token of his abhorrence. "He is the arch fiend
of them all—worse than Luther himself, even!"
"Be that as it may, he hath written a letter against the divorce, and
that of the sharpest!" answered my mother. "'Tis said his Majesty's
wrath was aroused far more by the letter than it was even by the
translation of the Gospels."
"Aye, have they got the Gospels in English again?" said a very old man,
who had been sitting in a great chair, apparently unmindful of all that
was going on. (I had seen with pleasure how neat and clean he was, and
how careful the good woman was to prepare his mess of food, serving
him with the best on the board.) "Well, well, the world goes on, but
methinks it goes back as well—"
"How so, good father?" asked my mother.
"Oh, 'tis but an old man's tale now, my lady; but when I was very
young—younger than your son yonder—there was great stir about one
Wickliffe, who, 'twas said, made an English Bible. Our parish priest
had one, and read it out to us in the church many a Sunday, marvellous
good words, sure—marvellous good words. But they stopped him at last
and hied him away to some of their convent prisons. 'Twas said that
he would not recant, and they made way with him. They said 'twas rank
heresy and blasphemy—but they were marvellous good words—I mind some of
them now—'Come unto me, and I will refresh you, ye weary and laden.' It
ran like that, as I remember: 'God loved the world so that he gave his
Son—that he who believed should have—should have'—what was that again?"
"'Should have everlasting life'—was that it, my father?" said I,
speaking I know not why, from some will, as it seemed, not my own.
"Aye, that is it," answered the old man, eagerly, his wasted face
lighting up. "I thank you, my young lady—the blessing of an old man be
on your fair head—'everlasting life'—aye that is it! Bless you, Madam!
Yes, yes! 'Everlasting life!'"
"And where learned you so much, my fair lady?" asked the friar, bending
his brows on me in no friendly way.
"From the Vulgate of the blessed Saint Jerome, reverend sir," I
answered demurely. "I am convent bred, and can construe Latin."
"More's the pity," growled the friar. "They had done better to teach
you to hold your tongue, and mind your spindle and needle. 'Twas never
a good world since women and laymen learned to read and write!"
My mother made me a sign not to answer, and presently we disposed
ourselves for bed—my mother and I in one room, my father and Harry
in the other. Our beds were but of straw, but fresh and with clean
and lavendered, though very coarse linen. The good woman made many
apologies, though I am sure none were needful, and after lingering a
little came close up, and said in a whisper:
"You will not think ill of my poor gaffer, my Lady—indeed, he is no
heretic, but a godly and devout old man. You see he is more than a
hundred years old, and old men's minds do mostly run on what they have
heard and thought when young. But he is no heretic, but a good old man!"
"That I can well believe," said my mother. "I am glad his reverend
age finds such a safe and warm harbor. Believe me, good dame, your
dutifulness to him will not go unrewarded."
"Nay, we were worse than the heathen not to care for our gaffer,"
answered the woman, and again bidding us good-night, she departed.
We slept well, despite our hard beds, and were awakened early by the
crowing of fowls, the bleating of sheep, and the loud-voiced directions
of the yeoman and his dame to their men and maids. They would not let
us go till we had broken our fast, and set us down to a plentiful table
again. The old man was not in his place, and my father noticed it.
"Aye, gaffer sleeps late, and we never rouse him," said the good man.
"Besides, I had no mind he should be questioned and teased by yonder
friar. A plague on them, say I—black cattle, that spare no man's field,
but live on the work of other men. Time was when we thought the begging
friars the best of the clergy, and now I think they are every one worse
than another."
'Tis strange how the clergy generally seem to be losing their hold on
the common folk, and how little they seem to be aware of it. The good
people would take no fee for our entertainment, saying that they so
seldom had any guests that it was a pure pleasure to them. My mother,
however, prevailed on the dame to accept a hood and pinners of black
Cyprus, and a bottle of her famous bitter and spicy cordial for her
daughter, who is weakly, and failing with a cruel tertian ague, which
shakes her to pieces every spring, and hardly gives her time to take
breath before it comes again in the fall.
We travelled much more slowly the second day, over a wild country,
mostly moorland, with here and there a deep dell wherein would be a
rushing stream and a few trees, with often a cool fountain gushing
from the rocks. We saw but few inhabitants, and those of the wildest,
more like savages than aught I ever conceived of Englishmen. My Cousin
Joslyn says they are indeed savages, and all but heathen in their
usages.
"Worse than heathen, maybe," said old Job Dean, who has had no good
will to this journey from the first. "Every one knows what moormen are.
They are no more proper human beings than mermen are—brutes that make
no scruple to feed on human flesh, when by their wiles and magic arts
they cause any poor travellers to lose their way on these God-forsaken
wastes."
"Methinks no magic arts would be needed to make one lose one's way on
these moors, in darkness or a fog," said my father.
"You are right," answered Cousin Joslyn. "Many lives are lost on them
every year, not however, as I think, by any arts or cannibal tastes
of these poor savages, but from the want of any roads or hostelries,
the sudden fogs, and the treacherous nature of the soil, abounding in
bogs, quicksands, and old mining excavations made by the heathen long
ago. As for these poor creatures, I have ever found them, though timid,
distrustful and full of wild and heathen superstitions, yet kindly
disposed enow."
"You have been among them, then?" asked my mother.
"Yes, Madam, in my wanderings after herbs and simples, birds' nests
and strange stones," answered Cousin Joslyn, smiling somewhat sadly.
"The people about Tremador will tell you that I am either mad as a
March hare, or else that I am a conjuror, as dangerous as the moormen
themselves."
We ate our midday meal by the side of one of the streams I spoke of,
and seeing some of the wild people—a woman and two children, peeping
out at us from behind the bushes—my mother laid some of our abundant
provision on a rock, and by signs made them welcome; and after our
departure we looked back from the other side of the stream, and saw
them devouring the food with ravenous haste.
"Poor things! I am glad they will have had one pleasure to-day," said
my mother, nodding to the woman, who nodded in return, and made an odd
gesture, stooping to the stream, and throwing the water toward us with
her hands.
"That is to bring us good luck on our journey," observed Cousin Joslyn.
"More like to put a spell on us and our horses, that we may fall into
their power!" growled old Job. "I would like to send some arrows among
them!" So cruel is even fear, in all its shapes.
The sun had set, and it was growing dark when we entered upon the
lands of Sir John Carey, and saw his house before us on the hillside—a
tumbledown old pile, half manor house, half castle, once evidently a
stronghold, but fast falling to decay.
"That does not look as if the knight were very prosperous," said my
father.
"And its look speaks truth," answered Cousin Joslyn. "This present
knight's father lost much in the civil wars, and more by the exactions
of the late King's unworthy ministers. Sir John went up to London on
the present King's accession, and there mended his fortune by marrying
a city heiress, who brought him gold enough to have rebuilt this poor
old pile. But he was drawn into Court life, and he and his dame must
needs raffle it in velvet and cloth of gold, with masks, entertainments
and what not, till the lady's fortune was wasted in a year or two and
there was nothing for it but to return hither, and live as best they
might—and bad is the best, if all tales say true."
"Aye, 'twas then I was fool enough to lend him eight hundred pounds!"
said my father. "I fear I shall never see principal or interest again."
As he spoke, we arrived at the doors of the manor house, which stood
wide open, so that we could see within a large hall, at the upper end
of which preparations seemed to be making for supper. Out rushed a
tumultuous throng of dogs of all sorts, and blue-coated serving-men,
in every stage of shabbiness. The dogs barked, the men hallooed, our
horses, alarmed by the tumult, reared and pranced, and I began to think
we should indeed be devoured, though not by moormen, when Sir John
himself appeared at the door, and by threats, oaths, and a liberal use
of his crutch-headed staff, restored something like order. He then
advanced to my mother, and giving her his hand to alight, welcomed us
with much courtesy to his poor house. He must have been a very handsome
gentleman in his day, but he looks old and feeble, soured and peevish.
My Lady stood in the hall and greeted us in her turn, as we were
presented by her husband, with—
"Lor, Madam, I am glad to see you, though 'tis but little we can do to
make you comfortable. We are but poor country folk, now—not like what
you once knew me, Sir Stephen, when I had mine own home and purse, and
was served in my father's house like a Queen. Alack, I little thought
then I should live to see this day! But you are welcome to what we
have!"
My mother made some polite speech, such as she is never at a loss for.
I was glad I was not called on to say anything.
"And these are your son and daughter—lack a day! A fine young lady and
gentleman—but I believe they are none of yours, Madam?"
"I call them mine," answered my mother, smiling.
"Aye, to be sure—but they can never be quite the same, methinks. We
have no children now—we had a son once, but he is dead."
Her sharp voice and face softened a moment, and then grew sharper than
ever, as she exclaimed, turning to a little thin maiden with unkempt,
uncovered locks and a kirtle like a milkmaid's, of coarse stuff, and
neither clean nor whole, who had crept into the hall while she was
speaking:
"What do you here, minion? Did I not forbid you to leave your chamber?"
And with that she gave the child a blow on the side of her face which
reddened her cheek and almost threw her over. The maid gave her a
glance of defiance, and then looking at me, she suddenly blushed all
over her pale face and threat, burst into tears, and ran out of the
hall.
"I crave your pardon, madam; but 'tis such an ill-conditioned wench she
puts me past all patience. But you would like to wash before supper.
Here, Dorothy Joan, show the ladies to their rooms."
We found our rooms furnished with some richness, albeit the furniture
was old, worn, and far from well kept; and the air seemed so damp and
mouldy that I thought with regret of our last night's lodging, perfumed
with lavender and the smell of clean straw. An old woman brought water
and towels, and we arranged our dress hastily, not to keep the supper
waiting.
The meal was set out when we came downstairs, and we took our places at
the board, according to our rank. I saw Mistress Warner, my mother's
gentlewoman, regarding the board and trenchers with anything but a
pleased expression. As for my mother, if she had to sup with a pig, she
would never hurt the pig's feelings by showing any discomforture, and I
tried to follow her example.
"Where is Joyce?" asked Sir Stephen, after we were seated.
"In her chamber, I suppose," answered my Lady. "Dorothy, go and call
her."
The old woman who had waited on us went away, and presently returned
with the little maid we had seen on our arrival. She had evidently
taken some pains to put the child in order, but she was still such a
forlorn object as I am sure my mother would not permit in her scullery.
She seemed undecided where to place herself, but at a nod from Sir
John, she slipped into a vacant seat between my father and Harry.
"What a figure you are, child," quoth my Lady Carey; "but 'tis no use
to dress her," added she, turning to my mother. "One might as well
dress a hog from the sty."
The black eyes threw a glance of indignant protestation at the speaker,
which showed that their fire was not wholly quenched, and instantly
fell again.
"I knew not you had a daughter, Sir John," said my father.
"Nor have I," answered Sir John, while my Lady laughed a scornful,
affected laugh. "This is no child of mine. She is the daughter of
Jeffrey Copplestone of your parts, and a king's ward. I bought her of
her guardian, old Master Earle, for two hundred pound ready money."
"And a poor pennyworth you got of her," struck in his Lady. "'Twas an
ill day for us when she crossed the threshold."
"I thought as she had a fair portion, and a decent estate in land to
her breastlace, she might make a wife to my son," continued the old
man, never heeding his wife's interruption: "but he would none of her.
Welladay, I thought not how 'twould end! What say you, Sir Stephen,
will you take the wench off my hands, and give me a quittance of my
debt to you? Her land lies handy to your moorland estate, and you may
marry her up to your son yonder."
"For shame, Sir John! Think you such a fine young squire would wed such
a scarecrow as our black Joyce?" said my Lady Carey, with that scornful
laugh again. "Not but it would be a good riddance to get her off our
hands, I am sure. Better send her to the nunnery, and let her estate go
for masses, I say."
My blood boiled to hear them so speak of the maid to her very face,
as though she had been no better than a brute. Looking at her, I saw
her great eyes raised and fixed on my mother's, with such a look of
imploring entreaty, as one sometimes sees in those of a dumb creature.
"And so you are Jeffrey Copplestone's maid?" said my father, turning to
Joyce, and speaking kindly, as he ever does to the weak and dumb: "I
knew your father well, for an honest and brave gentleman, and we stood
more than one stricken field together. I knew not that he had left a
child."
The eyes turned on my father this time with the same imploring look,
but not a word did Joyce say. Sir John seemed in earnest in the matter,
and at last my father said they would talk it over again.
When my mother and I were withdrawn to our chamber, where a fire was
lighted by this time, which did us little good, save to replace the
smell of mold by that of smoke—when I say we were withdrawn to our
chamber, and were talking of the day's adventures, the door opened
softly, and Joyce showed her pale, scared face, as doubting whether she
should venture in. My mother smiled and stretched out her hand, and the
action seemed to re-assure Joyce, for she rushed to my mother's side
and fell on her knees, bending down as if she would kiss her very feet.
"Oh, madam, save me!" she cried, imploringly, yet low, as if afraid of
being overheard. "Beg the kind gentleman, your husband, to buy me. I
will serve you on my knees! I will herd cows or weed corn, anything so
I may but be near you and away from here. They will kill me or drive me
mad among them! Oh, take me away!"
"Poor maid," said my Lady, "poor motherless, fatherless child! Has the
world dealt so hardly with thee?"
"Aye, that has it," said another voice—that of old Dorothy, who had
come in like a mouse. "Joyce, you should not be here! Think if my Lady
should come in and find you!"
Joyce shrank and shivered at the words, as if actually beaten, but she
did not move, till after a little more coaxing and threatening she
arose, and kissing my mother's hand more than once, crept slowly away.
"I dare not let her stay, and that is the truth," said Dorothy, after
she had closed the door, coming near us and speaking low; "my Lady
would so beat her for it if she knew."
"Is she then such an ill-conditioned child?" asked my mother.
"Nay, she was well enough conditioned when she came here, five years
agone," answered Dorothy. "She is all but crazed now, and no wonder;
but she does not want for mother wit, though she hath had no teaching
such as a young lady should have. You see her father was killed in a
duel before she was born, and her mother dying in child-bed, she became
a King's ward, and old Master Earle of Biddeford got her of the King
in lieu they say of moneys advanced to his Majesty's father. Mistress
Earle was no lady, but a bustling, kindly housewife, and the girl did
well enough with her I fancy, but her husband was a true usurer and
cared for naught but money. When the good dame died, Master Earle would
no more be plagued with Joyce, but sold her to our knight, and got, so
our old steward says, by far the best of the bargain. Sir John thought
to mate Joyce with our young master. But Master Walter would have none
of her, though he was always kind and brotherly in his rough way. He
had grown up at home, and learned nothing as he ought, and nothing
would serve him but to fall in love—fall indeed—with Cicely Woodson,
our bailiff's fair daughter."
My mother here glanced at me.
"Oh, there was nothing wrong then, madam!" said the old woman,
interpreting the look. "Cicely was as proud and modest as any young
lady, aye, and as beautiful too—a fine spirited lass, as you will see.
It might have turned out well enough, only Sir John was so bent on
making up the match between Walter and Mistress Joyce. So he told his
son he must be ready on a certain day. Walter tried at first to put the
matter off, and then it all came out that he and Cicely were already
married by a begging friar. My master and her father were equally
enraged—the marriage was pronounced null—poor Cicely was hurried away
to a convent, and Walter warned that he must submit to his father.
But mark what followed! That very night he disappeared, and next day
word came that Cicely had escaped from her convent. But they followed
them—alas, poor things!—and found them at last. The woman was dragged
back to her cell—to what fate I leave you to guess—and Master Walter
was brought home and shut up in the west tower. But he went raving
mad—alack, and woe is me!—threw himself from the window, and all to
break his skull on the stones below. Poor young thing! 'Twould have
been better to own the marriage and live in peace—think you not so,
madam?"
"I do, indeed!" answered my mother, wiping her eyes. "'Tis a woeful
tale! But I see not how poor Joyce was to blame in all this?"
"No, nor I; but 'twas visited on her, for all that!" returned the old
woman. "My Lady said that Joyce might have won him if she had tried;
and that she drove him away, and what not. Poor simple child! She would
have been ready enough to wed him, methinks, as he was ever kind to
her. And indeed, madam, it would be a deed of charity to take the maid
out of her hands, for my Lady is a hard woman. And poor Mistress Joyce
would do well enough with one who was kind to her. She is ever biddable
with me."
My father coming in, old Dorothy bade us good-night and departed.
"So you are up yet, child! You should be asleep, after your journey!"
said my father, stooping to kiss my forehead. "Be thankful that you
have home and friends, my maid, and are no king's ward, to be sold like
a cow to the highest bidder!"
"Surely a cruel and hard law!" said my mother. "My heart aches for this
poor maid!" and she told my father what we had heard.
"Sir John is very earnest for me to take the girl off his hands in lieu
of his debt, or a part thereof," says my father. "'Twould be a great
charge on your hands, I fear?"
"Nay, never hesitate for that!" answered my mother, cheerily. "Sure it
would be a blessed task: but can you afford the loss and charge?"
"Nay, for that matter, I suppose the rental of the Copplestone lands is
worth something, and in a family like ours, the keeping and education
of such a child would make little difference. I am not like to see
either principal nor interest, as matters now stand, for the landed
estate is entailed, and there is, as far as I can learn, no ready
money. But we will talk farther of the matter. Rosamond, my child, get
you to bed, and God bless you!"
I did most earnestly give thanks that night for my home and my kind
parents! I could not but think, as I lay down, what if my father had
wedded such a woman as my Lady Carey! My room was a little turret
within my parents' apartment, and I fell asleep at the last to the
sound of their talking.
The next morning, when we met at breakfast, Joyce was not to be seen;
and my Lady was clearly in a very bad humor. She had arrayed herself in
much antiquated finery, to do honor to us or herself, I know not which.
It was evident there had been a storm between her Lord and herself,
from her red eyes, raised color, and the snappish remarks she directed
toward him.
The house looked a more doleful place by daylight than it had done in
the evening. The hangings were tattered and moth-eaten; the windows,
filled with horn or oiled paper, with here and there a bit of stained
glass left to tell of old magnificence, were dark with dirt, and let in
the wind everywhere; the rushes on the floor looked to be three months
old, and everything seemed forlorn and wretched.
Poor Mistress Warner told me privately that her bed had been so musty
and so full of vermin that she could not sleep; and that some one
had come into the next chamber and had there so cruelly beaten and
miscalled a young child or maid, as it seemed, that she had much ado
not to interfere. Hearing this news, I was not surprised not to see
poor Joyce.
My mother, seeing the state of the case, set herself to work to pacify
the offended lady with all that courtly skill and grace whereof she is
so completely mistress; telling her of this and that lady of quality
(I doubt the good dame did not know half of them, but that made no
difference), giving accounts of entertainments at Court and at the
cardinal's, and detailing the news of the cardinal's probable disgrace
and the King's divorce, and suit to Mistress Anne. My Lady held out for
a while, but presently smoothed her ruffled plumage, grew gracious, and
began to talk herself of the days she spent at Court. Clearly those
says had been the glory of her life. We sat a long time, but at last
she excused herself, saying that she must look into the kitchen and see
what the maids were about, and so went away in a very good humor.
"Poor woman!" said my mother. "Life must indeed be dreary to her here!
She clearly cares for naught but gayety and finery, and they are as
much out of her reach as if she were in purgatory!"
"I don't believe such a temper as hers could be very happy anywhere!"
said I.
"Perhaps not, but yet my heart aches for her, poor thing! The change
would be severe to any one, even to a woman who had many resources
in herself, and how much more to one who knows no delight save fine
clothes and fine company!"
"Methinks I should find it hard to be contented here!" I remarked. "I
am sure I should not wish to sit down content with dirt and tatters and
an ill-ordered family. I could find some days' pleasing employment in
mending these hangings and cushions, and spinning new linen for bed and
tables, and airing and ordering of chambers and the like. 'Till such
things were done, I don't believe time would hang heavy on my hands!"
"You are a born housewife, Rosamond!" said my mother, smiling. "But you
are right in this. I hope indeed you would never sit down content with
any misorder or discomfort that could be remedied. That is but a poor
kind of content. But, my child, we must strive to keep this poor lady
in a good humor, for the sake of that unfortunate maiden. Your father
tells me he is wholly inclined to take her in hand, and that Sir John
is more than willing: but my Lady would fain bestow her and her goods
on a convent, thinking thereby in some sort to benefit the soul of her
unhappy son. I believe Sir John will have his own way, but it will be
easier for all, if my Lady can be brought to consent too. I wonder
where the child is?"
Mistress Warner here told my mother what she had overheard last night.
My Lady was moved more than ordinary. Anything like oppression or
injustice always rouses her anger.
"Nay then, is the woman base beyond hope," said she, "to visit her
anger on the helpless child? Surely 'twas a kind providence brought us
to the rescue of this innocent."
"My Lady, one of the women of the house told me last night that they
all, save old Dorothy, believe that Mistress Joyce hath the evil eye,"
said Mistress Warner. "They say she overlooked the young master to his
destruction. The lady herself tells them so. Do you think it can be
true?"
"So they must bring their superstitions to bear against her, as well!"
said my mother. "Nay, Warner, the evil eye is the eye that is full of
hate, and covetousness, and uncharitableness. I see no such thing in
this poor child's glances, do you?"
"No, madam; she looked harmless enough, for all I saw!" answered the
bower-woman, who is a kind-hearted creature. "Even if she had fallen
under the power of the devil, it would be a charity to rescue her, and
methinks one who fears God has no need to fear any one less than He."
"Spoke like a Christian woman!" said my mother, and then the
conversation was ended by the return of my Lady.
Well, we stayed that day and that night, and in the afternoon the
matter was concluded; and Sir John, calling for Joyce, formally
surrendered her to my father's keeping.
"And a good riddance, I'm sure!" quoth my Lady, with her hard, affected
laugh. "I wish Sir Stephen joy of his bargain! I am only too glad to
get rid of her, the ungrateful witch!"
"Hold your tongue, Sarah!" said Sir John. "See that the child's things
are got together. Where are the gold chain and the string of pearls I
gave into your keeping? Bring them hither, and give them over to Sir
Stephen!"
"Lack-a-daisy, Sir John, how should I know?" answered my Lady,
reddening and casting anything but a friendly glance at her husband. "I
have not seen the trumpery for ages."
"You will find them, unless you want me to find them for you!" said the
knight, in a peremptory voice. "You had them in your cabinet among your
own gewgaws, I know, for I saw them. Go and fetch them here."
"Oh, very well, Sir John! So that is the way you treat your wife, that
brought you all you had, and whose wealth you have wasted, and that
before strangers! Alas, the day that ever I saw you!"
And with that she began to weep and cry aloud, and then to scream, till
she fell into a fit of the mother.
Her husband, with an impatient "Here, women, see to your mistress!"
strode out of the hall and returned presently with the jewels—a fine
heavy gold chain and a necklace of fair large pearls.
"There, take her away out of sight!" said he, thrusting the things into
my mother's hands. "Take her away, and keep her by you this night.
Maybe I have not done right by her. I wanted to wed her to my son, and
do well by her, but they would none of each other—I dare say 'twas not
her fault, after all, poor wench! There, there—go, child, go!" For
at the first kind word Joyce was at his feet and kissing his hand,
with tears and sobs. "Go with thy new friends, be a dutiful maid, and
take my blessing with thee, if the blessing of such a wretch be worth
anything."
We saw no more of my Lady. In obedience to Sir John's hint, my mother
kept Joyce at her side the rest of the day, and she shared my bed at
night. She seemed unable to believe in her own deliverance, and started
at every sound.
"She came to my room last night and beat me—oh, so cruelly!" the poor
thing whispered to me, after we were in bed, "and that was not so bad
as her words. She said I was a witch, and had bewitched her son to his
death, and that she would have me burned! Your good father wont let
them burn me, will he, Mistress Rosamond? I would not so much mind
dying, but it would be dreadful to be burned alive!"
I soothed her and told her she would be safe under my father and
mother's care, and if she would be a good and obedient maid, she might
be as happy as the day was long.
"I will try to be good!" she said, simply. "But I am so ignorant! I
have had no learning. I hardly know anything. Mistress Earle taught me
to work, and spin, and say my prayers, but I have forgot them all now.
Father Joe, our chaplain, used to teach me a prayer now and then, when
he was sober, and he was kind to me; but he died from drinking strong
ale. And then Walter died. Walter was always good—and I had no friend
save poor old Dorothy."
I told her we would teach her, and bade her try to sleep, that she
might be ready to travel in the morning; and so with much ado got her
quiet.
Early in the morning we left the hall, seeing none of the family save
Dorothy and the steward.
"Now I can breathe again!" said my father, drawing a long breath, when
we were once out on the open moors. Joyce was on a pillion behind
Cousin Joslyn, holding on very tight, and every now and then looking
round with a scared face, as though expecting pursuit. She grew easier
the farther we went, and when we were quite out of sight of the house,
she too drew a long breath, and seemed as if she were more at ease.
We rode all day, across all but pathless wastes, seeing hardly a living
thing save a few forlorn sheep tended by a wild, wolfish-looking dog
and a boy not less wild than he. Toward the middle of the afternoon,
however, we came to a hamlet, where the cottages were more decent
than any we had seen since leaving home; some of them having little
gardens, with parsnips and onions, and a few pot-herbs, and now and
then some hardy flowers. All the people came to the door at sight of
our cavalcade, and there were many reverences and smiles from men and
women. They were a large, sturdy, wild-looking race, with black curly
hair and black eyes.
"Now we are on your lands, my dear cousin," said Cousin Joslyn, turning
to me. "This is the village of Tremador, and these be your tenants and
cottagers."
I confess I was so silly at first as to feel a sense of prideful
elation at the thought that I was in some sort mistress of these people
and owner of the lands whereon I stood: but my second thought, I trust,
was a better one, and I inwardly breathed a prayer that in so far as
I had special duties toward these good folks, I might have grace to
fulfil them.
"Truly a fine-looking people!" said my mother. "And the cottages are
far better than I expected to see in these remote parts."
"That is mostly my late mistress' doing," remarked Master Penrose.
"She could abide naught like sluttishness, or waste, or unthrift, and
made constant war on them. Then we have an excellent parish priest—no
drunken Sir John, like him down at the place we left this morning but a
good and devout man, whose life is as pure as his prayers. Sir Stephen,
there stands an old playmate of yours and mine—old Jasper, who helped
us to take the falcons on the cliff."
My father must needs stop to see his ancient friend, and we soon had a
crowd about us, all naturally eager to see their new lady and their old
friend Master Joslyn. But they were no ways rude or prying, and when
we rode away, followed us with many good wishes and welcomes, or so my
cousin said, for they almost all speak the Cornish tongue, which, of
course, is so much Greek to me.
Our road, now a fairly good one, led us away from the village, and
skirted a long and high hill, near the top of which was perched the
church, with a very high gray tower.
"What an odd place for the church!" says Harry.
"Yes, they say the devil had a hand in the building of many of our
Cornish churches, and I don't wonder," answered Cousin Joslyn: "they
are put in such inaccessible places. In the winter storms 'tis all but
impossible for the village folk to reach this one, and my Lady had a
scheme for erecting a chapel down in the hamlet yonder, but she never
carried it out."
We went on for nearly another mile, rising ever higher, though by
somewhat slow gradations, till we reached all at once the top of the
ridge. Then what a view burst upon us! There was the sea standing up
like a blue wall, so high were we above it, the land falling off to our
right in a sheer precipice, at the foot of which were jagged rocks,
among which the waves broke wildly, though it was a clear, calm day.
In front of us opened a lovely valley—what we in our parts call a
coombe—filled with woods, among which roared a brawling stream, which
tumbled into the glen at the upper end in a fine cataract, of which we
could catch a glimpse.
Nestling in the mouth of this glen, with a south-western exposure,
lay the gray old house of Tremador, surrounded with great nut trees,
and one huge pile of verdure, which Cousin Joslyn said was a Spanish
chestnut. It had a homelike look to mine eyes from the first.
"The old house looks just the same," quoth my father: "I could expect
to find my aunt seated in her parlor, with her cat and its kitlings in
a basket by her side, just as I left them thirty years agone."
"You will find the cat and the kitlings, though not quite the same that
you left," answered Cousin Joslyn. "But the house can never be the same
to me again, now that my dear old friend and mistress is gone! But here
we are. Welcome home to your own house, my fair Cousin Rosamond! Master
Toby, you remember my Cousin Stephen; and this is his Lady, and this is
Mistress Rosamond, your new lady and mistress."
Master Toby the steward, bent low to each of us, specially to my
unworthy self, and then came Mistress Grace, and the men and the maids,
all gathered in the hall to meet us. I don't know how I acquitted
myself, but I know I never felt so young and insignificant in all my
life.
Mistress Grace marshalled us all to our rooms. I was to have my aunt's,
by her special direction, while my father and mother, as was fitting,
had the room of state. Dame Grace says some king once slept there,
but she can't tell who it was. She thinks 'twas either his Majesty
Henry Sixth or King Alfred. I could not but smile, but Cousin Joslyn
tells me, that though the unhappy Henry did really pass a night under
this roof, there is a tradition that some sort of house stood here in
Alfred's time, and that the royal fugitive was really here in some
of his many wanderings. A part of the house is as old as the time of
Edward the Confessor, and with its heavy, thick walls, low arches,
and general massive roughness, makes me think of our shrine of St.
Ethelburga, which I shall never see again.
[That was a mistake of mine. I saw all I desired and more of that
famous shrine afterward.]
We have now been here four days, and I am beginning to feel at home. I
have made friends with the old cat, who after considering me a while,
went off and returned with a mouse, which mouse she deposited in my lap
with an air of great satisfaction. Cousin Joslyn says it was a tender
of service. I praised the old cat and took the mouse in my hand, and
then delivered it over to the kits, at which their mother seemed quite
satisfied. 'Twas an odd, but methought a mighty pretty trick of the
poor brute, and I could see that Mistress Grace took it for a good omen.
I think Joyce is, however, the happiest of any one. As I said, we have
arrayed her anew in a dress something suited to her quality, and with
her tangled locks smoothed and covered, her face and hands washed, and
her eyes growing less like a scared and beaten hound's, she is really a
lovely child. She is sixteen years old, but is so small and slight she
might easily pass for twelve, which my mother says is all the better,
as she is so backward in her education. She has never learned to read,
and has forgotten all she ever knew about her religion, save a Hail
Mary and a fragment of her paternoster, which she says the chaplain at
the hall taught her.
Finding my late aunt's spindle and distaff lying in my room, she
begged that she might try to spin, saying that she had once learned
of Mistress Earle, and after some trials, in which she showed great
patience, she had the spindle dancing merrily on the floor, and drew
out a very smooth even thread. She has asked me to teach her to
read, and I am going to try. Untaught as she is in everything that
it behooves a young lady to know, even in such every-day matters as
eating and sitting properly, she is attentive to the slightest hint
of my mother or Mistress Warner, who has taken the poor orphan into
her kind heart at once, and is laying out great plans for teaching her
white-seam, cut-work, and lace-making. Warner has the sense and wisdom
to show great deference to Mistress Grace, as being so many years the
elder, and they get on well together; and indeed Mistress Warner is a
good Christian woman, as my mother says.
[Illustration]