requesting advice from her Aunt, went down to the brook in search of
Bertha. She found her sitting on a green bank, with very red eyes.
"Well, my dear heart?" said Avice kindly to Bertha.
The kind tone brought poor Bertha's tears back. She could only sob
out--"Emma's gone!"
"And thou art all alone, my child," said Avice, stroking her hair. She
knew that loneliness in a crowd is the worst loneliness of all. "Well,
so am I; and mine errand this very day was to see if I could prevail on
thy mother to grant me one of her young maids to dwell with me. What
sayest thou? shall I ask her for thee?"
"O Cousin! I would be so--" Bertha's ecstatic tone went no farther. It
was in quite a different voice that she said--"But then there's Father!
Oh no, Cousin. Thank you so much, but it won't do."
"That will we ask Father," said Avice.
"Father couldn't get on, with me and Emma both away," said Bertha, in a
tone which she tried to make cheerful. "He'd be quite lost--I know he
would."
"Well, but--" began Avice.
"Then he'd find his self again as fast as he could," said a gruff voice,
and they looked up in surprise to see old Dan standing behind them.
"Thou's done well, lass. Thou's ta'en advice o' thy own kind heart, and
not o' other folks. Thee take the little maid to thee, and I'll see
thee safe out on't. She'll be better off a deal wi' thee, and she can
see our Emma every day then. So dry thy eyes, little un; it'll be all
right, thou sees."
"But, Father, you'll not do without me!"
"Don't thee be conceited, lass." Old Dan was trying hard to swallow a
lump in his throat. "I'll see thee by nows and thens. Thou'll be a
deal better off. And there's--there's El'nor."
"Eleanor's not _always_ in a good temper," said Bertha doubtfully.
"She's best o' t'other lot," said old Dan. "She's none so bad, by nows
and thens. I shall do rarely, thou'll see. But, Avice--dost thou think
thou could just creep off like at th' lee-side o' th' house, wi' the
little maid, afore She sees thee? When thou'rt gone I'll tell her, and
then I'll have a run for't till it's o'er. She's better to take when
first comings-off is done. She'll smooth down i' th' even, as like as
not, and then I'll send El'nor o'er wi' the little maid's bits o' gear.
Or, if she willn't go, I can bring 'em myself, when work's done. Let's
get it o'er afore She finds aught out!"
Avice scarcely knew whether to laugh or to be sorry. Poor, weak,
easy-tempered Dan! They took his advice, and crept round by the
lee-side of the house, under cover of the hedge. When they were out of
sight, with a belt of trees between, old Dan took leave of them.
"Thou'll be good to the little maid, Avice," said he. "I know thou
will, or I'd never ha' let her go. But she'll be better off--ay, a deal
better off, she'll be. She gets put upon, she does. And being
youngest, thou sees--I say, my lass, thou'd best call her aunt. She's
so much elder than thee; it'll sound better nor cousin."
"Very good, Father," said Bertha. "But, O Father! who'll stitch your
buttons on, and comb your hair when you rest after work, and sing to
you? O Father, let me go back!"
"Tut, tut, lass!" said old Dan, clearing his throat energetically. "If
one wife and four daughters cannot keep a man's buttons on, there's
somewhat wanting somewhere. I shall miss thy singing, I dare say; but I
can come down, thou knows, of a holy-day even, to hear thee. And as to
combin'--stars knows I shall get enough o' that, and a bit o'er that I
can spare for old Christopher next door. He's got no wife, and only one
lass, and she's a peaceable un. He's a deal to be thankful for. Now,
God be wi' ye both. Keep a good heart, and step out. I'll let ye get a
bit on afore I tell Her. And then I'll run for't!"
Avice and Bertha "stepped out" accordingly; and as nobody came after
them, they concluded that things were tolerably smooth. They did not
see anybody from the smithy until two days later; and then, rather late
in the evening--namely, about six o'clock--Dan himself made his
appearance, with one bundle slung on a stick over his shoulder, and
another carried like a baby.
"Well!" said he, as he sat down on the settle, and wiped his hot face
with his apron. "Well!"
"O Father, I'm so glad!" said Bertha. "Are those my things? How good
of you to bring them!"
"Ay, they be," said Dan emphatically. "Take 'em and make the best thou
can of 'em; for thou'll get no more where they came from, I can tell
thee."
"Was Aunt Filomena very much put out?" asked Avice, in a rather penitent
tone.
"She wasn't put out o' nothing," answered Dan, "except conduct becoming
a Christian woman. She was turned into a wild dragon, all o'er claws
and teeth, and there was three little dragons behind her, and they was
all a-top o' me together. If El'nor hadn't thought better on't, and
come and stood by me, there wouldn't have been much o' me to bring these
here."
"Then you did not run, Uncle Dan?" replied Avice.
"She clutched me, lass!" responded Dan, with awful solemnity. "And
t'others, they had me too. Thee try to run with a wild dragon holding
on to thy hair, and three more to thy arms and legs--just do! I wonder
I'm not tore to bits--I do. Howsome'er, here I be; and I just wish I
could stop. Ay, I do so!"
And Dan's apron took another journey round his face.
"Uncle Dan, would you like to take Bertha back?" was Avice's
self-sacrificing suggestion.
"Don't name it!" cried Dan, dropping the apron. "Don't name it! There
wouldn't be an inch on her left by morning light! I wonder there's any
o' me. Eh, but this world is a queer un. Is she a good lass, Avice?"
"Yes, indeed she is," said Avice.
"I'm fain to hear it; and I'm fain thou's fallen on thy feet, my little
un. And, Avice--if thou knows of any young man as wants to go
soldiering, and loves a fray, just thee send him o'er to th' smithy, and
he shall ha' the pick o' th' dragons. I hope he'll choose Ankaret.
He'll get my blessing!"
Aunt Filomena seemed to have washed her hands of her youngest daughter.
She never came near them; and Avice thought it the better part of valour
to keep away from the smithy. When Emma had a holiday, which was a rare
treat, she often spent it with her sister; and on still rarer occasions
Eleanor paid a short visit. But the only frequent visitor was old Uncle
Dan, and he came whenever he could, and always seemed sorry to go home.
CHAPTER FOUR.
BABY.
A very quiet life was led by Avice and Bertha. The house work was done
by the two in the early morning--cleaning, washing, baking, churning,
and brewing, as they were severally needed; and in the afternoon they
sat down to their work, enlivened either by singing or conversation.
Sometimes both were silent, and when that was the case, unknown to
Avice, Bertha was generally watching her features, and trying to read
their meaning. At length, one evening after a long silence, she
suddenly broke the stillness with a blunt question.
"Aunt, I wish you would tell me what you are thinking of when you look
so."
"How do I look, Bertha?"
"As if you were looking at something which nobody could see but
yourself. Sometimes it seems to be something pretty, and sometimes
something shocking; but oftener than either, something just a little
sad, and yet as if there were pleasantness about it. I don't know
exactly how to describe it."
"That will do. When a woman comes to fifty years, little Bertha, there
are plenty of things in the past of her life, which nobody can see who
did not go through them with her. And often those who did so cannot see
them. That will leave a scar upon one which makes not a scratch upon
another."
"But of what were you thinking, Aunt, if I may know?"
"That thou mayest. I fancy, when thou spakest, I was thinking--as I
very often do--about my little Lady."
"Now, if Aunt Avice is _very_ good," said Bertha insinuatingly, and with
brightened eyes, "that means a story."
Aunt Avice smiled. "Ay, thou shalt have thy story. Only let us be sure
first that all is done which need be. Cast a few more chips on the
fire, and light another pine-torch; that is burnt nigh out. And see thy
bodkin on the floor--careless child!"
Bertha jumped up and obeyed. From one corner of the room, where lay a
heap of neatly-cut faggots, she brought a handful, and threw it into the
wide fire-place, which stretched across half one side of the room, and
had no grate, the fire burning on the stone hearth: then from a pile of
long pointed stakes of pitch pine, she brought one, lighted it, and set
it in an iron frame by the fire-place made for that purpose; and lastly,
she picked up from the brick floor an article of iron, about a foot in
length, and nearly as thick as her little finger, which she called a
bodkin, but which we should think very rude and clumsy indeed.
"Hast thou heard, Bertha," said Avice, "that when I was young, I dwelt
for a season in the Castle of Windsor, and my mother was nurse to some
of the children of the Lord King that then was? Brothers and sister
they were of our Lord King Edward that reigns now."
Bertha's eyes brightened. She liked, as all girls do, to hear a story
which had to do with great people.
"No, Aunt Avice, I never knew that. Won't you tell me all about it?"
So Avice began and told her what we know already--how the Bishop had
recommended Agnes to the Queen, and all about the journey, and the
Castle, and the Queen herself. Then she went on to tell the rest of the
story.
"We lived nigh five years," said Avice, "in the Castle of Windsor--until
the Lord Richard was dead, and the Lord William was nearly four years
old. Then the Lady Queen removed to the royal Palace of Westminster,
for the Lord King was gone over seas, and she with Earl Richard his
brother was left to keep England. It was in August, the year of our
Lord 1253, at we took up our abode in Thorney Island, where the Palace
of Westminster stands. It is a marshy place--not over healthy, some
folks say; but I never was ill while we dwelt there. And it was there,
on Saint Katherine's Day"--which is the 25th of November--"that our
little Lady was born. Her royal mother named her Katherine, after the
blessed saint. She was the loveliest babe that eye could rest on, and
she was christened with great pomp. And on Saint Edward's Day, when the
Lady Queen was purified"--namely, churched--"there was such a feast as I
never saw again while I dwelt with her. The provisions brought in for
that feast were fourteen wild boars, twenty-four swans, one hundred and
thirty-five rabbits, two hundred and fifty partridges, sixteen hundred
and fifty fowls, fifty hares, two hundred and fifty wild ducks,
thirty-six geese, and sixty-one thousand eggs."
"Only think!" cried Bertha. "Did you get some, Aunt?"
"Surely I did, child. The Lady Queen, I told thee, was then keeper of
England, for the Lord King was away across the seas; and good provision
she made. Truly, she was free-handed enough at spending. Would she had
been as just in the way she came by her money!"
"Why, Aunt, what mean you?" asked Bertha, when Avice expressed her wish
that Queen Eleanor had been as just in gaining money as she was liberal
in spending it.
"Why, child, taxes came heavy in those days. When the Lord King needed
money, he sent home to his treasurer, and it was had as he could get
it--sometimes by selling up divers rich folks, or by levying a good sum
from the Jews, or any way man could; not always by equal tenths or
fifteenths, as now, which comes not nigh so heavy on one or two when it
is equally meted out to all. But never was there king like our late
Lord King Henry (whom God pardon) for squeezing money out of his poor
subjects. Yet old folks did use to say his father King John was as ill
or worse."
Taxes, in those days, were a very different thing from what they are
now, and were far more at the mere pleasure of the King, not only as to
the collecting of them, but as to the spending. Ignorant people fancy
that this is the case still; but it is not so. Queen Victoria has no
money from the taxes for her private spending. When she became Queen,
she gave up all the land belonging to her as Queen, on condition that
her daughters should be portioned, and that she should receive a certain
sum of money every year, of less value than the land she gave up; so
that it would be fraud and breach of trust in the people if they did not
keep their word to pay the sum agreed on to the Queen. There is so much
misunderstanding on this point that it is worth while to mention it.
"Then were the King and Queen--" Bertha began.
Avice answered the half-asked question. "They were like other folks,
child. They liked their own way, and tried to get it. And they liked
fine clothes, and great feasts, and plenty of company, and so forth; so
they spent their money that way. I'll not say they were bad folks,
though they did some bad things they were folks that only thought what
they liked, and did it; and folks that do that are sure to bring sorrow
to themselves and others too, whether they be kings and queens or cooks
and haymakers. The kings and queens can do it on a larger scale; that
is all the difference. There are few enough that think what God likes,
as holy Bishop Robert did, and like to do His will better than their
own; those that do scatter happiness around them, as the other sort
scatter misery.
"Well, after a while, the Lady Queen left England, to join the Lord King
across seas; but before she went, she took our little Lady down to the
Castle of Windsor to the rest of the King's children. There was first
the Lady Beatrice, who was a maiden of twelve years; and the Lord
Edmund, a very pretty little boy of nine; and the Lord William, who was
but four; and there were also with them other children of different ages
that were brought up with them; but only one was near our little Lady's
age, or had much to do with her. That was Alianora de Montfort,
daughter of Earl Simon of Leicester, that bold baron that headed the
lords against the King; and her mother was the King's own sister, the
Lady Alianora. She was fifteen months older than our little Lady, and
being youngest of all, the two used to play together. A sweet child she
was, too; but not like my own little Lady--there never was a child like
her."
"What was she like, Aunt?"
"Tell me what the angels are like in Heaven, and thou shalt hear then.
She is an angel now--she hath been one these three-and-twenty years.
But methinks there can have been little to change in her face when she
blossomed into a cherub, and the wings would unfold themselves from her
as by nature. Never a child like her!--no, there never was one. She
had bright, dark eyes, wonderful eyes--eyes that her whole soul shone
in, and that took in everything which passed. She spoke with her eyes;
she had no other way. The souls of other children came out of their
lips; but she had not spent many months in this lower world, before we
saw with bitter apprehension and deep sorrow that God had sealed her
sweet lips with eternal silence. She saw all; she heard nothing; she
could never speak. My darling was deaf and dumb."
"O Aunt Avice!"
"Ay, verily at times I wondered if she were indeed an angel that God had
sent down to earth, for whose pure lips our English was too rough, and
our French too rude, and who could only speak the tongue they speak in
Heaven. She went back but whence she came; we were not fit company for
her. Methinks she was sent to let our earthbound hearts have one
glimpse of that upper world; and when her work was done, her Father sent
for her back home.
"Though our little Lady could never speak, yet long before we discovered
that, we found how lively, and earnest, and intelligent she was. As I
told thee, she talked with her eyes. Nothing could be done in her
presence but she must see and know all about it. A little pull at my
gown would tell me she was there; and then I turned to see the bright
eager eyes looking into mine, and asking me as plainly as eyes could ask
to let her know all about it. She would never rest till she knew what
she wanted. Ay me, those eager eyes look into angels' faces now, and
maybe into the face of God upon the throne."
"But, Aunt, how could she understand, if she could not hear?"
"God told her somehow, child. He taught her, not we. We did our best,
truly; but our best would have been a poor business, if He had not taken
her in hand. Many a time, before I had finished trying to explain
something to her, that quick little nod would come which meant, `I
understand.' Then she had certain signs for different things. She made
those herself; we never taught them to her. She stroked what she liked,
as man would stroke a dog; when she disliked anything, she made a feint
of throwing her open hand out from her, as though she were pushing it
away. She had odd little ways of indicating different persons, by
something in them which struck her. Master Russell, the Queen's clerk,
and keeper of the royal children, used often to have a sprig of mint or
thyme in his lips as he went about; her sign for him was a bit of stick
or thread between her lips. For the priest, she tolled a bell. For the
Lady Beatrice, her sister, who had a little airy way of putting her head
on one side when anything vexed her, and my Lord Henry de Lacy, who
pouted if he were cross (which he was pretty often)--my little Lady
imitated them exactly. The Lady Alianora flourished her hands when she
spoke; that was the sign for her. For the Lord King, her father, whose
left eyelid drooped over his eye, she pulled her own down. She had some
such sign for everybody. She noticed everything."
"Could she not say one word, Aunt?"
"Yes, she could say three. Verily, sometimes I marvelled if she might
not have been taught more; but we knew not how, and how she got hold of
those three we could never tell."
"What were they?"
"They were, `up,' `who,' and `poor.'"
"Well, she could not do much with those."
"Could she not! `Who' asked all her questions. It answered for who,
what, where, when, how, and why. She went on saying it until we
understood and replied to the sense in which she meant it. `Poor' was
the word of emotion; it signified `I pity you,' `I love you,' `I am
sorry,' and `Forgive me.' And sometimes it meant, `Forgive him,' or
`Don't you feel sorry for her?' And I think `up' served for everything
else."
"Aunt," said Bertha softly, "how did you teach the little Lady to pray?
She could tell her beads, I suppose; but would she know what they
meant?"
For Bertha, like everybody else at that time, thought it necessary to
keep count of her prayers. Prayer, in her eyes, was not so much
communion with God, as it was a kind of charm which in some
unaccountable way brought you good luck.
"Beads would have meant nothing to her but toys," was Avice's reply.
"The Lady de la Mothe taught her the holy sign"--by which Avice meant
the cross--"and led her to the image of blessed Mary, that she might do
it before her. But I do not think she ever properly understood that She
seemed only to have an idea that it was something she must do when she
saw an image; and she did it to the statue of the Lady Queen in the
great hall. We could not make her understand that one image was not the
same thing as another image. But I fancy she had some idea--strange and
dim it might be--of what we meant when we knelt and put our hands
together and looked up. I know she did it very often, without telling--
always at night, before she slept. But it was strange that she never
went to the holy images at that time; she always seemed to go away from
them, and kneel down in a corner. And in her last illness, several
times, coming into the chamber, I found her lying with her hands folded
in prayer, and her eyes lifted up to Heaven. Perhaps God Himself told
her how to speak to Him. One of the strangest things of all was when
the little Lord William died; she was nearly three years old then. She
had been very fond of her little brother; he was nearest her age of all
her brothers and sisters, though he was almost four years older than
herself. She came to me sobbing bitterly, and with her little cry of
`Who? who?' I took it to mean `What has happened to him?' and I was
completely puzzled how to explain it to her. But all at once, while I
was beating my brains to think what I could say that would make her
comprehend it, she told me herself what I could not tell her. Making
the sign for the little Lord who was dead, she laid her head upon her
hand, and closed her eyes; and then all at once, with a peculiar grace
that I never saw in any child but herself, she lifted her arms,
fluttering her fingers like a bird flaps its wings, and gazing up into
the sky, while she said, `Up! up!' in a kind of rapture. And I could
only smile and bow my head to the truth which God had told her." [See
Note 1.]
"But how could she know it?" asked astonished Bertha.
Avice shook her head. "I cannot explain it; I can only tell what
happened. She was always very tender-hearted; she never could bear to
see any quarrelling, or cruelty, or injustice. If two of the children
strove together, our little Lady would run to them with a face of deep
distress, and take a hand of each and draw them together, as though she
were begging them to be friends; and if she could not get them to kiss
each other, she would kiss first one and then the other. I missed her
one day, and, after hunting a long while, I found her in the gallery
before a fresco of our Lord upon the Cross. She was stroking it and
kissing it, with tears in her eyes; and she turned to me saying, `Poor!
poor!' Her eyes always filled with tears when she saw the crucifix.
The moon used to interest her exceedingly; she would sit and watch it,
and kiss her hand to it. But, dear me! how the time must be getting on!
Jump up, Bertha, and prepare supper."
Bertha folded up her work and put it aside. She drew one of the high
stools between her aunt and herself, and put out upon it the two wooden
trenchers and two tin mugs. Going to a corner cupboard, Bertha brought
out a few cakes of black bread, which she set on a smaller stool beside
the other; and then, lifting a pan upon the fire, she threw into it some
pieces of mutton fat. As soon as these were melted, Bertha broke four
eggs into them, stirring this indigestible mixture with a wooden
thible--an article of which my northern readers will not require a
description, but the southern must be told that it is a long flat
instrument with which porridge is stirred. For the eggs were not merely
fried in the fat, but were beaten up with it, the dish when finished
bearing the name of franche-mule. A sprig or two of dried herbs were
then shred into the pan, and the whole poured out, half on each of the
trenchers. It is more than possible that the extraordinarily rich,
incongruous, indigestible dishes wherein our fathers delighted, may have
something to do with the weaker digestions of their children. The tin
mugs were filled with weak ale from a barrel which stood under the
ladder. It was an oddity at that time to drink water.
When supper was finished, Bertha washed the mugs and scraped the
trenchers clean (water never touched those), putting them back in their
places. She had scarcely ended when a tap was heard at the door.
"Step in, Hildith," said Bertha, as she opened it. "Christ give thee a
good even!"
"The like to thee," was the answer, as a rather worn-looking woman came
in. "Mistress Avice, your servant. Pray you, would you lend me the
loan of a tinder-box? I am but now come home from work, and am that
weary I may scarce move; and yon careless Jaket hath let the fire out,
and I must needs kindle the same again ere I may dress supper for the
children."