_Aug. 5._
HERE we are at home again, safe and sound, having made the journey in
less than three days. The poor babe is alive, and that is all. My Lady
is like a ghost so pale, wasted and woe-begone; but keeps up for the
sake of her husband and child. I see my mother has great fears for her.
_Aug. 12._
My mother being so much at the great house, Joyce naturally falls to
me. She has been put to sleep in the little green room which opens into
mine, and sits with me every morning doing her task in the hornbook and
in sewing and spinning. She takes to the use of her fingers readily
enough, but is sadly dull at her book. Master Ellenwood, whom I
consulted, advised me to give her pen and ink and let her imitate the
letters, and I think we shall get on better. She is so good and tries
so hard, that I cannot for very shame get out of patience with her. In
the afternoon we take long walks and rides with Master Ellenwood or
Harry for escort, or go to see the sick folk in the village.
The babe still lingers, but we have no hope of his life. My Lord is
like one distracted, but more I think for the mother than the child. He
depends for everything on Richard, and can hardly bear to have him out
of sight; so we see little of Dick. He will be the next heir if this
poor boy dies, unless there are others. The prior said as much to him
the other day, adding "that 'twas an ill wind," etc., (a fine speech
for a Churchman). My father said Richard's brow grew black, but he
answered courteously:
"If my prayers could keep the child alive, my reverend Father, he would
live to be as old as Abraham."
Whereat my father said the prior had the grace to look ashamed. Poor
old man, he himself cares for naught but money, and I suppose he can't
understand how any one can be really disinterested.
I must not forget to say that the Spanish kitling made the journey in
the pocket of Harry's horseman's coat, sorely discomposed at times by
the shaking, and wailing pitifully, but on the whole behaving very well.
We stopped for one night we were on the road at the same yeoman's house
as before, and had the same hearty welcome. We heard that they found
the old gaffer dead in his bed the next day but one after our visit.
The dame said the words he had repeated to us were constantly on his
lips the last day of his life, and when she put him to bed, he asked
her "when that young lady would come again?" and left his blessing
for me. And after she left him, she heard him murmuring over and
over—"everlasting life—everlasting life." Truly a happy end.
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