Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
_[The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles.]_
_[Year 1529]_
LOVEDAY'S HISTORY
A TALE OF MANY CHANGES
BY
_LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY_
_Author of_
_"The Foster-Sisters," "Lady Betty's Governess," "Winifred,"_
_Etc., Etc._
NEW EDITION
[Illustration]
LONDON:
JOHN F. SHAW & CO.
48 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE BEGINNING.
II. MORE REMEMBRANCES.
III. ANOTHER CHANGE.
IV. A NEW LIFE.
V. THE THUNDER STRIKES.
VI. THE LIGHTNING STRIKES AGAIN.
VII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW.
VIII. HER GRACE'S GENTLEWOMAN.
IX. HER GRACE.
X. AT THE GREAT HOUSE.
XI. THE DUKE'S RING.
XII. THE OLD HALL.
XIII. "EXILED, AND YET AT HOME."
XIV. ANOTHER HOME.
XV. COOMBE ASHTON.
XVI. THE GREAT STORM.
XVII. THE WANDERERS.
XVIII. THE LAST.
[Illustration]
_LOVEDAY'S HISTORY._
CHAPTER I.
THE BEGINNING.
I SHALL never forget that beginning. It was like the lightning flash,
which always comes suddenly, albeit one may have seen the clouds
gathering for hours, and even have heard distant growls and mutterings
of thunder. Of such growls and mutterings there had indeed been a
plenty when I was quite a little maid, living with my kinswoman,
Lady Peckham, in Somersetshire. I remember well my lady's wrath and
consternation at hearing that my Lord Cardinal had put down some thirty
or more of the small religious houses, especially convents of nuns, and
had confiscated their revenues to the endowment of his grand college
foundation at Oxford. There was no talk of pensions and sustenance for
old or young. The poor souls were turned adrift to shift as best they
might. If my Lord Cardinal were alive to see the havoc that hath been
made since, he might bethink himself (if he ever happened to hear it)
of a certain pithy proverb about showing the cat the way to the cream.
The cat hath lapped the cream pretty clean in these days.
I had a personal interest in that same measure of my Lord Cardinal,
seeing I was myself destined for one of those very convents, a small,
but reputable house of Gray Nuns, not far from Bridgewater. I was the
daughter of a kinsman of my Lady Peckham's first husband, and being
left an orphan of tender years and wholly without provision, my lady
charitably took me into her protection and care, and gave me a home,
intending to bring me up till such age as I should be fit to make a
profession. But the convent was suppressed, as I have said, and so that
cake was dough. The sisters—there were not more than eighteen or twenty
in all—found places where they could. Some went to their friends, some
to other houses of the same order. One went to live in the family of a
master baker in Bridgewater, where she afterward married. I saw her not
long since, a fine stately old dame, and a great blessing to her own
family as well as to the poor of the town. One—Sister Benedict—came to
stay with my lady till she could find suitable convoy to another house
of Bernardines not far from London.
I don't think that in her secret heart my lady was very sorry to have
an excuse for keeping me with her a while longer. I had grown a handy
little maid, tall of my age, and having no daughters of her own, it
was but natural she should take to me, especially as I was very fond
of her. I liked nothing better than to follow her around like a little
dog, carrying her basket or her keys, and running with good will to do
her errands about the house and garden. I believe I might have done the
same as long as I lived, only for Sister Benedict, who came to stay
with us, as I said, and who must needs put her finger in the pie.
My lady had a son by her first marriage—Walter Corbet by name—who was
destined by his mother for holy orders. He was several years older than
I, and we were great friends, as was but natural. He helped me in my
lessons, specially in my Latin, which I learned with him of Sir John
Watson, our kind old parish priest and domestic chaplain, and fought my
battles and those of my pet cats against Randall Peckham who, though
not a bad lad in the main, was rather too fond of teasing.
Poor Randall was sent to Oxford, where he went altogether to the bad,
ran away leaving more than a hundred pounds of debt behind him, and
(so we heard) was cast away on a ship going to Holland. He was his
mother's pride and darling, and her heart was almost broken. I have
always believed, ever since I was old enough to think about the matter,
that Sister Benedict persuaded my lady that her holding back Walter and
myself from that service to which we had been promised had brought this
judgment upon her.
Walter declared that, though he might consent to be a parish priest, he
would never be a monk, and he was one not easy to be moved when once
his mind was made up, though he never stuck out about trifles—not like
poor Randall, who could be coaxed or flattered out of any principles
he ever had, while he would be obstinate even to folly about the
trimming of a glove, or the management of a hawk. So my lady was fain
to compromise the matter, and Walter was sent to Bridgewater to study
with Sir Richard Lambert, a very learned priest with a great reputation
for sanctity. (Of course I did not know all this at the time, being but
a child.)
I was sent away with Sister Benedict, to go to my father's brother,
a rich merchant in London, trading to the Low Countries. That was
the story. Sir Edward had all along been opposed to bestowing me in
a convent, and after the suppression of the Gray Nuns' house, he had
spoken his mind freely to my lady, saying that he would not have me
disposed of in that way without my own consent, and that no more should
be said about the matter till I was of age to judge for myself. My lady
seemed to acquiesce, as indeed she always did on the rare occasions
when Sir Edward asserted his will, and I suppose she might really be
glad of the excuse to keep me at home, for, as I have said, she liked
to have me about her.
But Sir Edward went away, being sent to Scotland on public business
by the King, and Sister Benedict came, and the upshot of the matter
was, that I was sent to London to see my uncle and little cousins. As
soon as Sister Benedict could make proper arrangements, I was to be
transferred to the convent of Bernardines at Dartford, a very rich and
reputable house. I don't think it was meant that I should know this,
but my lady's woman let the cat out of the bag, and my lady, finding I
knew so much, told me the rest herself—so I knew what to look for.
The journey to London was longer and harder then than now, and very
dangerous withal. But my Lord Abbot of Glastonbury, who was Sister
Benedict's uncle, was going up to town with a great following, and
we traveled in his train; so we escaped the dangers of the road, and
met with far more consideration than we should otherwise have done.
Nevertheless, I remember that Sister Benedict was highly indignant at
certain instances of disrespect shown to her uncle by the gentry and
others whom we met, and mourned over the degeneracy of the times. The
truth was, the thunder-cloud was even then lying low in the sky, and
men felt its influence as dumb creatures do that of a natural storm
before it comes.
Well, we reached London at last, and glad was I when our journey was
done, though sorry to part with Sister Benedict, who, her point once
gained, was very kind to me. However, I had so much to engage my
attention that I did not feel the parting so deeply as might perhaps
have been expected.
Mine uncle lived in Portsoken ward, in a very fine house built by his
grandfather, but greatly enlarged and embellished by his father and
himself. It had a large courtyard, and a garden at the back, wherein
were some huge apple trees and a great standard pear tree, besides
others for shade and beauty. All the Corbets are fond of gardening,
and my Uncle Gabriel was no exception to the rule. At that time (and I
suppose the same is true now) the great merchants of London lived very
handsomely, and enjoyed many luxuries which had not been so much as
heard of in our remote corner of the world. I was met at the door by
a most lovely old lady, who kissed me on both cheeks, and informed me
that she was my great-aunt, my Grandfather Corbet's sister.
"And so you are poor Richard's child! I remember him well, a little lad
no bigger than you, if as big. You don't favor him greatly, and yet
there is a Corbet look about you, too. What was your mother's name?"
I managed to say that it was Loveday Carey.
"Yes, yes, I remember. And how old are you? But never mind now. You
must need refreshment after your long journey, but I suppose you have
not come very far to-day."
She led me by the hand toward the foot of a grand staircase, far
finer than that at Peckham Hall; but as we reached it, I started
back in utter dismay from what I conceived to be no less than the
devil himself—namely, the figure of a man black as ebony, and rather
fantastically dressed, who stood bowing and showing his white teeth
in a manner which seemed to me to warrant the conclusion that I was
instantly to be devoured. I clung to my aunt's arm, and uttered, I
suppose, some exclamation of dismay. My terror seemed greatly to amuse
the creature, which now giggled outright.
"What is it?" said my aunt, as I let go of her hand and retreated
behind her.
"The black man!" I faltered.
"Oh, poor Sambo? I suppose you never saw a blackamoor before. But don't
be frightened, child. He is a human creature like ourselves, and hath
kind heart, and is a good Christian, too; are you not, Sambo?"
Thereupon the negro made the sign of the cross, and showed me a
crucifix which hung about his neck.
"You will soon learn to like him as well as our children do," said my
aunt. "Go, Sambo, and bring up the young lady's mails."
Sambo grinned again wider than ever, and betook himself to the side
door, where an attendant of my Lord Abbot's was waiting with my baggage.
Thus reassured, I ventured to pass him, and followed my aunt up the
stairs into the very finest room I had ever seen. My uncle's house is
built with the upper stories projecting over the lower. I always had
a fancy that it was leaning over to look down the street. There was
a great oriel window, with many panes of stained glass, which formed
a deep recess. On the floor of this recess lay a beautiful carpet,
such an one as I had never seen before. I could not conceive how such
a beautiful fabric chanced to be in such a situation, for the two or
three Turkey rugs we possessed at Peckham house were used as coverings
for tables and beds. A great East country cabinet stood in this recess,
and before it a carved arm-chair. The walls of the room were hung with
Spanish leather most curiously wrought with gold and silver figures;
the furniture was partly of damask and partly of Cordovan leather. At
the other end of the apartment was a second large window looking upon
the street, as the first did upon the garden. Here stood a low chair,
and a basket piled up with homely household work.
"This is my place!" said Aunt Joyce—so she bade me call her. "And now
I will call your cousins to take you to your own room, where you will
find your mails, and they will help you to change your traveling dress,
that you may be neat when my nephew comes home to dinner at eleven. We
all dine together, though I doubt such late hours are not very good for
the health of the young ones. When I was young, I never dined later
than nine o'clock, nor thought of sitting at table with my parents.
But times are changed—times are changed—and my nephew hath a right to
command in his own house."
I began to wonder when she was going to stop talking long enough
to call my cousins, but at last she blew her silver whistle, which
hung with her keys at her girdle, and presently two pretty little
girls, some years older than myself, made their appearance, and were
introduced to me as my cousins, Avice and Katherine. They were twins,
and more alike than any two people I ever saw. They were wonderfully
fair, with thick, soft, curling hair of the color of new flax, or a
thought yellower; clear, transparent gray eyes, and a lovely bloom
on their cheeks. I fell in love with them on the instant. They only
courtesied when presented to me, and, giving me each a hand, led me
away.
As we passed a great Venice glass, I remember being struck with the
difference in our looks, for I was ever a true Corbet, with the great
dark eyes, level black brows, and crisp hair of my race—a regular black
Corby, as poor Randall used to call me.
The twins led me up the staircase and into a room furnished with blue,
where were two little beds and a truckle for a servant. Out of this
opened a large light closet, where I found my mails. As soon as we were
alone, the girls found their tongues.
"We are glad you have come to live with us!" said Avice, who was always
the first speaker, and indeed took the lead in every thing, as I found
out afterward.
"Yes, we are very glad, because it will be like having our sister
again!" said Katherine.
"A little like it!" said Avice. And then, seeming to feel she had hurt
my feelings, she added—
"You know nobody can be quite like one's own sister, but I am sure we
shall love you, Cousin Loveday!"
"And I am sure I shall love you!" I returned warmly. And then I
ventured to ask: "Did you have another sister, and is she dead?"
"Yes!" said Avice, with a quivering lip. "She was a beautiful little
girl, and she looked a little like you, for she had dark hair and eyes.
But she fell into the chincough, and then into a long waste, and died
in spite of all that could be done."
"But she has gone to paradise—I am sure she has, and we shall see her
again some day," added Katherine, her eyes shining with a kind of
steadfast light. "I could not bear it, only for thinking of that."
There was a little silence, and then Avice asked me how old I was.
"I shall be nine years old come Michaelmas—and you?"
"We shall be twelve on Midsummer day. Can you read, cousin?"
"Oh yes!" I answered, not without a little feeling of vain-glory, I
dare say. "I can read and write, and I have begun Latin."
"We can read and write a little, but not well;" and then followed a
comparison of accomplishments.
And soon I found I had nothing whereof to boast, since my cousins
could play on the lute and the virginals, embroider in all sorts of
stitches, and even knit—an art which I had only heard of at that time,
as practiced in that same convent of Gray Nuns whose dissolution had
sent me to London. We grew excellent friends over all these inquiries
and answers, and when we were called down to dinner we descended the
stairs, not hand in hand, but with our arms round each other's waists.
We went down to the ground floor this time, and I was led into a great
dining-room where was a table splendidly set out—or so it seemed to
my unaccustomed eyes—with snowy napery, silver and fine colored ware,
such as I had never seen. They were, in fact, china dishes, then only
beginning to be used by the wealthy merchants of London and the Low
Countries. Sambo and one or two 'prentice lads were just placing the
dinner on the table, and my uncle was standing by the window, looking
out upon the garden, now all ablaze with flowers, many of which were
new to me.
He turned round as I entered, and showed me one of the handsomest and
kindest faces I ever beheld in my life. He was a man in middle life,
tall and somewhat stout, though not unbecomingly so, with curling brown
hair, a little touched with gray at the temples, large gray eyes with
very long lashes, and a chestnut beard trimmed in the fashion of the
day. He was richly but soberly dressed, and I noticed even then the
whiteness and fineness of his linen. Sea-coal was not used in London
then as much as now, and it was easier to keep clean.
"So this is my little niece, is it?" said he, kindly raising me and
bending down to kiss my forehead as I kneeled to ask his blessing. "You
are welcome, my dear child. May the God of thy fathers bless thee."
Even then there was something in my uncle's tone which struck
me—a peculiar solemnity and earnestness, quite different from the
business-like, rapid fashion in which Father Barnaby and our own Sir
John used to go through the same form. It seemed as if he were really
speaking to some one. He caused me to sit at his right hand, and helped
me bountifully from the dish of roast fowls which stood before him. The
dinner was elegantly served, and Sambo showed such skill in waiting on
his master, and such alacrity in helping me to sweetmeats that I found
my dislike to him sensibly diminishing.
Of course we children did not speak at the table, and indeed I was too
busy making my remarks on all I saw to care even for eating. I admired
the china dishes, so hard and light and so beautifully painted; the
clear glass and finely wrought silver; and I once or twice really
forgot to eat in gazing through the great glass window at the flower
garden.
"You are looking at the flowers!" said my uncle. "After dinner we will
go and see them nearer."
At that moment something made an odd scratching noise on the glass door
which led into the garden. Sambo looked at his master, who smiled and
nodded. He opened the door and in walked a stately creature, which I
should hardly have guessed to be a mere cat, only for his loud musical
purr. He was immensely large, and had fur that almost dragged on the
ground, a bushy tail, and a mane or collar of much longer fur round his
neck, and as he was of a yellowish color, he looked not unlike a little
lion. He marched up to my uncle's side, where Sambo had already set a
joint-stool for his accommodation, but seeing a stranger at table, he
turned and greeted me with great politeness, rubbing his head on my arm
as if to invite my caresses.
"Do not be afraid," said my uncle, seeing me shrink a little, for
indeed the creature's great size and strength made him somewhat
formidable to a stranger. "He is the best-tempered fellow in the world,
and a famous playmate, as you will soon find out."
Hearing this, and seeing the cat was evidently a favorite of my
uncle's, I ventured—having finished my dinner—to stroke him, an
attention which he received with condescending kindness. My aunt poured
some cream into a saucer, and Turk drank it as calmly as if it were a
matter of course—as indeed it was for him—to sit at table and eat cream.
"Loveday opens her eyes!" said my aunt. "I dare say she never saw a cat
sit at table and be served like a Christian before. Do you like pets,
Niece Loveday?"
"Yes, madam!" I answered, and indeed I had a kind of passion for them,
which I had heretofore gratified almost on the sly, for my Lady Peckham
did not like pet animals of any kind.
"That is well, for we have plenty of them," said my aunt. "Sambo must
show you his popinjay."
Sambo bowed, and grinned till his face seemed all white teeth.
"There, run away, children, and play in the garden if you like!" said
my uncle. "Take Loveday to see the flowers."
We went out into the garden, and the girls showed me many lovely
flowers, such as I had never seen before.
"My father trades with the Dutch merchants, who bring all sorts of
curious plants from the Indies," said Katherine. "That is the way we
got our cat and Sambo."
"Father bought Sambo from a man who treated him cruelly," added Avice.
"When he first came here he was a heathen, but my aunt has taught him
better, and now he can say his paternoster and creed in English. We all
like him because he is so droll and so kind. My Lord Cardinal wanted
him for a fool, but my father would not give him up."
"I never saw a black man before," said I. "I did not know there were
such things, and when I first saw him I thought it was the evil one
himself."
"Some of our neighbors believe he is not quite right," observed
Katherine, "but he is as good a Christian as any one."
"Better than some, because he is grateful!" said Avice. "Come, now, and
we will show you the last new tree our father got from foreign parts.
There is not another in the country, and we are in a great hurry to
have it bloom, that we may see what the flowers are like."
I duly admired the foreign tree, or shrub, which had thick, glossy
loaves, and on which the flower buds were just forming, and then, Turk
appearing and putting in a claim for notice, we had a great frolic with
him, and found him an excellent playfellow, as my uncle had said.
When we went into the house, my aunt called me up stairs and showed me
my clothes neatly arranged in a press, while a small blue bed, like my
cousins', was being put up for me in the light closet I have mentioned.
"This will be your room as long as you stay here," said she. "Let me
see that you keep it neat and orderly, as a young maid should."
I courtesied, and said I would do my best. The little room was very
pretty, and even luxurious, in my eyes. There were no rushes on the
floor, such as I had been used to seeing—and I now perceived, for the
first time, what it was that made the floors all over the house seem so
strange and bare to me.
"That is one of my nephew's new-fangled ways, as old Dame Madge calls
them," pursued my aunt. "He learned it in Holland among the Dutch, who
are the cleanest folks in the world."
"Yes, new-fangled ways," muttered the old dame, who was mending
somewhat about my bed curtains. "It was never a good world since these
new ways came up. But we shall see—we shall see!"
"I must needs allow that the air in the house is much sweeter since
we disused the rushes, which are a great cover for dirt and vermin,"
pursued my aunt; "though it makes a great deal of work, washing and
polishing the floors."
"I noticed how sweet the house smelled," I ventured to say. "I think
the floors look pretty, only—" and then I stopped in some confusion, as
it occurred to me that I was making very free.
"Well, only what?" asked my aunt.
"Only it seems a pity to see such fine rugs laid down to be walked on,"
I answered. "We had only two at Peckham Hall, and one was on the state
bed and the other on my lady's own."
"You are an observing child. Sambo says the Turks use these rugs
just as my brother does, and that they kneel on them to say their
prayers—poor, deluded creatures."
My aunt chatted on, and I stood by her side, well content to listen to
her and answer her questions. She had a remarkable way of putting every
one at their ease, both gentle and simple. We never had a new housemaid
or 'prentice who did not at once fall in love with Mistress Holland.
"You must not mind if Dame Madge is a little crabbed sometimes!"
said my aunt, as the old woman left the room. "She is jealous of
all newcomers, and would fain keep the favor of master and mistress
altogether to herself. There, now, all is done, I believe," she added,
as she hung a holy water basin and crucifix at the head of the bed. "I
hope you will be happy here, my child."
"I am sure I shall!" I answered, with perfect sincerity, and then, all
at once, I remembered that this pleasant house was not my home after
all—that in a few days Mother Benedict would probably come and carry me
off to that fate which had been waiting for me all my life. I suppose
my face showed my thoughts, for my aunt noticed the change—as what did
she not notice which concerned the comfort of others—and asked me what
was the matter.
"It is a change for you, I know, but you must try not to be homesick."
"I am not homesick!" I answered. "Only—" and then I dropped on my
knees, hid my face in my aunt's lap and burst out crying. I don't know
what made me. I should never have thought of such a thing with my lady,
who, though always kind, did never invite my caresses.
"What is it, dear heart? What makes thee cry? Tell Aunt Joyce what ails
thee, my dear, tender lamb, now do?" said my aunt, who was apt, in
times of interest, to return to her native Devon. I remember, as though
it were yesterday, how sweetly sounded in mine ears the homely accent,
and the words of endearment which I suppose might find some echo in
my childish remembrance. Sure 'tis a cruel thing to deprive young
creatures of those caresses which even the dumb beasts bestow upon
their young. I have always thought that if my lady had been more tender
and gentle with poor Randall, he might have been different.
"Only I can't stay here!" I sobbed at last. "Pretty soon Mother
Benedict will send or come for me, and I shall have to go to the
convent, to be shut up and never see any body, or run in the fields any
more, and to wear a horrid gray robe, and a veil—" and here I broke
down again.
"My child, I think you are borrowing trouble!" said my aunt, with a
perplexed look. "I thought you were coming to live with us. I heard
nothing about any convent."
"But I am to go to the convent!" I answered. "My lady said so."
"Well, well, we will talk to my nephew about it!" said my aunt. "Don't
cry any more, there's a lamb, but wash your face and come down stairs
with me, and by and by we will go and take a walk in the fields and see
the old people in the almshouses. Can you sew?"
"Oh yes, aunt!"
"Then you shall help me a little, if you will. I am making some napkins
of old worn linen for one of the bedeswomen who has watering eyes, and
you shall hem one for me. As for the convent, I would not trouble about
that just now, at any rate. It will be time enough when you have to go
there."
Somewhat comforted, I washed away the traces of my tears with the
rosewater my aunt gave me, and followed her down stairs to the parlor,
where my cousins were already sitting, the one at her sampler, the
other at her lute, which she played very prettily for a child.
If my aunt was in a hurry for the napkins she gave me to hem, she
did not act wisely in seating me at the window, for I saw so much to
observe and admire that my work went on but slowly. But I suppose her
object was rather to divert me from my grief, and in that she certainly
succeeded. Now it was some gay nobleman of the court with two or three
attendants, all glittering in gold and embroidery who passed by—now a
showman with a tame jackanape or a dancing bear—then a priest under a
gorgeous canopy, carrying the host in its splendid receptacle to some
dying person.
I can't pretend to recite all the wonderful things I saw. I could not
help wondering where all the people found lodging, and how they found
their way home at night. Now London is far more crowded than it was
then, and it increases all the time, despite the laws made to check the
growth of large towns. But I do not think it can ever be much larger
than it is at present.
[Illustration]