ANOTHER CHANGE.
FOR a few days I was kept in quite a fever of suspense, thinking every
time I heard a strange voice or an unusual noise in the house, that
some one had come for me; but as the days passed into weeks, and the
weeks into months, and I heard nothing from Mother Benedict, I began to
make myself at home in my uncle's house. My old life in Somersetshire
came to seem like a dream—almost as much so as that still further
away time when I lived at Watcombe farm with my father and mother. I
practiced my lute, and worked at my white seam and tapestry, and kept
up my Latin, learning a lesson every day which I said to my uncle at
night, when he never failed to reward me, when I had been diligent,
with a story out of his great book. For recreation we played with our
dolls and the cat, worked in our own little gardens, and took walks
with my uncle and aunt to see poor people. Sometimes we had playmates
of our own to visit us, but not often, and I think we preferred each
other's society at all times to that of outsiders.
Once, my uncle took us out of town to spend the day with a farmer who
rented certain lands from him. We went away early in the morning, my
aunt riding a sober palfrey, and we children occupying a horse litter
under the charge of two or three stout serving men; for, despite the
severities exercised toward robbers and broken men, the ways about
London were dangerous for small parties. We met with no adventures,
however, and when we reached the open heath, my aunt allowed us to get
down and walk, on condition that we did not go far-away.
I shall never forget how delightful was the feel of the short springy
turf under my feet after the stony paths of the city. I would have
liked to rove far and wide; but this my aunt forbade, and I had to
content myself with gathering such flowers as grew near at hand. We
arrived at the farm about nine of the clock, and found the family had
risen from dinner, and were dispersed about their several occupations.
In those days a farmer's wife would rise, and have all her maids
stirring by three o'clock at latest in summer-time, and her day ended
by seven or eight. The whole family dined together between eight and
nine, and master and mistress worked as hard as any one. Now some of
our farmers' dames must ape their betters by putting off their dinners
till ten o'clock, and cannot, forsooth, soil their fingers with the
dung-fork. I don't know what the world is coming to for my part.
Dame Green gave us the warmest welcome, and at once set her daughters
and maids to covering the table with bread and butter, cream, ginger
and saffron bread, and a great cold pie like a fortification, with all
sorts of country dainties. We young ones did ample justice to all the
good things, but I saw that my aunt ate but little, and seemed sad and
distraught.
"You have some one with you?" said my aunt, as a somewhat high-pitched
voice, with a strong London accent, made itself heard without.
"Yes, my brother-in-law's widow, and I wish she were any where else!"
said Dame Green, with a face of disgust. "Poor Thomas Green died
bankrupt, and Mistress Jane hath no refuge but her brother's house."
"And a very good refuge too!" said my aunt. "'Tis well for her that she
hath such a home open to her."
"She does not think so, madam. To hear her talk, one would think she
was in banishment among the savages. I wish she were any where else
than here, turning the girls' heads with her talk about tourneys and
court fashions—much she ever saw of them! But here she comes to answer
for herself."
As she spoke, a woman entered the room dressed in widow's mourning. She
must once have been pretty, in a coarse, bouncing fashion, and she wore
her weeds with a kind of jaunty air. Dame Green presented her to my
aunt.
"Dear me, Mistress Holland, who would have expected to see you in the
country to-day, of all days in the year!" cried the lady in a shrill,
affected voice. "I should have thought you would have staid and taken
the young ladies to see the spectacle. I have been fuming all the
morning at being shut up in this wild place."
We children looked at each other, wondering what great sight we had
missed.
My aunt replied gravely:
"Such sights are far too sad and dreadful for young eyes. Indeed, I
know not how any one can take pleasure in witnessing the horrible death
of a fellow-creature."
Mistress Jane looked a little abashed.
"But these are heretics and blasphemers, madam! Surely you will allow
that they deserve their deaths."
"If we all had our deserts, we should be cast into a hotter fire than
Smithfield!" said my aunt. "Even the fire that never can be quenched."
Mistress Jane looked decidedly offended.
"One would think you were one o' the Gospelers yourself, madam! For my
part, I ever paid my dues to Holy Church and took the sacrament regular
on the great feast days, and I have always given alms in charity—yes,
to every begging friar that came along, besides making two pilgrimages
to the shrine of Saint Thomas of Canterbury, and if that won't insure
my salvation, I wonder what will? I'm not like some folks that grudge a
poor widow so much as a jaunt to London," with a spiteful glance at her
sister. "Every one knows 'tis a good work to assist at the burning of a
heretic."
We children glanced at each other again, which my aunt seeing, after
exchanging a look with our hostess, said rather quickly—
"If you have finished your dinners, children, you may run out and play."
"Yes, to be sure!" said the dame. "Dolly, take the young ladies out and
show them the new chickens and the little ducklings swimming in the
pond."
I, for one, would rather have staid to hear the talk in which I felt a
kind of dreadful interest, but I was used to obey without a word, of
course. Dolly was a nice, good-natured, bouncing girl, who was much
delighted with the new ribbons and kirtle my aunt had brought for her.
She did her best to entertain us; leading us all about the farm and
showing us the young fowls and the lambs at play in the pasture. In the
course of our rambles, we passed a little ruinous house, half-overgrown
with nettles and brambles, but yet bearing the marks of having once
been a church-building of some sort.
"What is that?" asked Katherine.
Dolly crossed herself. "That is the hermit's cell," said she, "but no
one lives there now. The place has an evil name, and is haunted."
"Why, what is the matter with it?" asked Katherine.
Dolly hurried us to some distance from the scene, and then told us the
story, which at this distance of time, I do not clearly remember, only
that it was that of a hermit who was once very holy and even worked
miracles.
"They say he had an image of the Virgin of such wonderful power, that
it would bow its head and spread out its hands to bless whoever brought
it an offering. But by and by, the hermit got into a strange way,
refused to say masses in the little chapel you see there, and was heard
at night, talking with some invisible person. At last, one morning when
he had not been seen for a long time, search was made for him, but
naught could they find but his gown and breviary, and the holy image
which lay dashed all in fragments on the floor of the chapel."
This is the tale as nearly as I remember it. Dolly added, that since
then, lights were often seen, and voices heard in the ruins, and that
no one would go near them after dark; indeed it was regarded as so
dangerous to do so that her father had strictly forbidden it.
When we returned to the house we found my uncle had arrived. He greeted
us kindly as usual, but his face looked worn and had a set expression,
as of one who has been forced against his will to behold some horrible
sight.
But I had not much time to speculate on his face. I had not been well
lately, and had been subject to fits of coldness and swooning, which
my aunt declared were caused by a tertian ague. I suppose I might have
over-fatigued myself, for one of these same fits came on now, and I
came near falling from my seat.
I was put to bed with all speed, and dosed with I know not what hot
and spicy cordials from the dame's stores; but all did not serve. I
had a hard chill, and then a fever, after which I fell asleep. When
I waked all was quiet, only for the noises out of doors. I felt very
comfortable, though weak and disinclined to stir. So I lay still,
and watched the bees buzzing in the eglantine and jasmine round the
casement, till I became aware of some one talking in the next room, the
door of which was half open. The voices were those of my uncle and aunt.
"So he met his death bravely?" said my aunt.
"Like a hero!" answered my uncle. "Even when he parted from his wife,
who by the kindness of the sheriff was allowed to take leave of him
just outside the prison gate, he showed no signs of giving way, but
kissed her and sent his blessing to his child, as if he had been
setting out on an ordinary journey."
"And she?"
"She was no less brave than himself, poor heart, bidding him have no
care for her—she should do very well. He bade her so to live as that
they should meet in heaven; whereat one that stood by struck him on
the mouth, bidding him be silent for a foul-mouthed heretic. Whereat,
Higgins turned to him and said calmly—'God give thee repentance,
friend, for an' if He do not, thou art in a worse case than I.' When he
had passed, and not before, did the poor wife fall down in a fit, and
was charitably cared for by some women of her acquaintance."
"And Higgins was brave to the last?"
"Yes, to the very last moment. He would not so much as listen to the
promise of pardon if he would repent, and commended his soul to God as
the faggots were lighted. There was plenty of tar and resin among them,
and I think he suffered not long."
"Thank Heaven!" said my aunt, and I knew by her voice that she was
weeping.
"But oh, nephew, when will all this end?"
"I know not, aunt; but I trust and believe that it will end in the
establishment of truth and a free Gospel in all this land. It may not
be in our time, but it will surely come."
Here I made some movement, and my aunt coming to me, I heard no more.
But I often thought of the conversation afterward, and puzzled over it.
I had been brought up by my Lady Peckham to think a heretic the worst
of criminals. Yet here were mine uncle and aunt, the very best people I
had ever known, whose sympathy was clearly on the side of one at least
of these heretics. Childlike, I turned the matter over and over in my
mind without ever mentioning it to any one, or asking for a solution of
my puzzles.
It was not thought best for me to return to London that night, and,
indeed, I was not able. I staid at the farm some weeks, part of the
time having my cousins for company. It was pretty dull at first, but as
I grew better and able to go about, I liked it very well.
My only trouble was Mistress Jenny Green, whom I came absolutely to
hate. She was always catechising me about my uncle's family, what
company they kept, what furniture, etc., they had, where we went to
church, and all sorts of trifling particulars. At other times she would
spend hours in bewailing her hard lot, and describing the fine things
she had enjoyed in her London home.
Truly, if she spent half what she said, 'tis no wonder her husband
became bankrupt, poor man. Then she took a great fit of devotion—would
go to matins and vespers and all other services at a convent church
not far-away; kept fasts and vigils, and had even made up her mind to
receive from the priest of that house the widow's mantle and ring; *
but a suitor from London turning up in the shape of a smart young
draper, she changed her mind, married him on the instant, and went away
to London, to the great relief of her own family, and the scandal of
the priest aforesaid. This I have learned since. I was too young to
know much about it at the time, only I well remember how glad we were
to see her go.
* It was formerly a custom for widows who did not desire to marry
again to make a vow to that effect, at which time they received a
mantle and ring. A breach of this vow was counted very disgraceful.
It was now drawing toward midsummer, and my health being fairly settled
again, I was sent for home. I parted with my kind hostess and her
family with real regret, which I fear was not altogether unselfish. At
the farm I was quite a great lady, petted and waited on, and treated
with great consideration.
At home, I was only little Loveday—a child of the family, taking my
place with the others, having my daily tasks, and checked and reproved
if I did them amiss. I began to be sullen and discontented, careless
about my lessons and my work, and pert when spoken to.
One day my uncle heard me give my Aunt Joyce a very saucy answer (which
I had never dared to do had I known he was by). He ordered me at once
to beg her pardon, and when transported with passion I refused, he
punished me severely, and ordered that I should be kept in penitence
till I submitted. I dare say I should have done the same thing in his
place, and yet I do not think it was the best way in my own case. I had
enough of my family spirit to know how to cherish a grudge. I thought
my aunt was wrong in blaming me (as indeed she was, for I am confident
I never touched the glass she charged me with breaking); my Corbet
blood was roused, and I would not give way. I had my meals by myself
for several days, and was not spoken to by any of the family.
There was one person in the house who thoroughly rejoiced in my
disgrace, and that was old Madge. She had always been jealous of me,
being one of those people to whom it seems necessary if they love
one person or thing, to hate some other person or thing in exact
proportion. Madge fancied, I believe, that my adoption by my uncle
would lessen by just so much the portions of her darlings, Katherine
and Avice. They could do nothing wrong in her eyes. We were required
to put our rooms and beds to rights. Katherine was apt to be rather
careless, more so than myself, but while Madge would always pick up and
put away for her, she took care that any little sluttishness of mine
should be sure to meet my aunt's eye. Nay, I used to accuse her in mine
own mind (and I am not sure now that I was wrong) of purposely putting
my affairs out of order that I might get a reproof. However that might
be, my faults lost nothing in her hands.
Madge's granddaughter was one of our maids, and a spiteful thing she
was, and quite ready to follow her grandmother's lead, so far as I was
concerned. She had a bachelor who was a journeyman of my Lord Mayor,
and they were to be married in the course of the summer. 'Twas a match
rather above her degree, but Betty was a pretty creature, and knew how
to ingratiate herself well enough. My aunt had promised her her body
and house linen, and also her wedding gown.
It was the day before St. John's eve, whereon the marching watch was
to be set forth with greater bravery than usual. I had heard a great
deal from my cousins about this splendid show on St. John's eve. The
citizens of London were accustomed to set tables before their doors
plentifully laden with meats and drinks, whereof all passers-by were
invited to partake. The houses were decorated with lamps and cressets,
and the doors shadowed with canopies of sweet herbs and all sorts of
flowers. Every body was abroad to see the marching watch in their
bright harness, with their attendants bearing cressets upon poles,
while others carried oil wherewith to feed them. Then there were
pageants, morris dancers, and musicians without end. It was, indeed, a
goodly and gallant show.
Great heaps of flowers and herbs had been sent in from the farm, and my
aunt and cousins, with the maids, were busy weaving garlands. The cook
and his assistants were well-nigh driven frantic by the heat and their
cares, while Sambo flitted here and there like a magpie, helping every
one, and showing his white teeth with endless grins and chuckles. Sambo
was my firm friend and took my part on all occasions, which did not
help me with Dame Madge. I should have been in the thickest of the plot
at any other time, and my assistance was not to be despised, small as
I was, but no one asked me to help, and I wandered about, feeling very
forlorn and bitter, indeed, and wishing that Mother Benedict would come
and carry me away to the convent.
In this mood I went out to the garden, where my own little flower plot
lay looking so prim and pretty, and where I had spent so many pleasant
hours with my cousins, who were now not allowed to speak with me,
though they often gave me looks of compassion. Indeed, Katherine had
brought herself into temporary disgrace on my account, by telling Betty
before her grandam, that she was a spiteful, tale-bearing pyet, and
deserved to be whipped far more than I did.
I walked about the garden, feeling miserable enough, when the thought
struck me that I would go and look at my uncle's Indian tree, which
was now coming into flower. I knew that two buds had been just ready
to burst the night before. Lo! Not two but three or four flowers were
fully out. I know not how to describe them, for I never saw any like
them before or since. They were round in shape, somewhat like a rose
but more regular, with thick, wax-like leaves, and some yellow in the
center. I stood, as it were, entranced before them, and at last I
stooped down and kissed one of them, but without doing it any harm.
"So, Mistress Loveday!" said Madge's sharp voice behind me. "You are
not content with what you have done, but you must needs break and spoil
your good uncle's flowers."
I turned and saw Madge and Betty regarding me. I vouchsafed them no
reply, but walked away to my own garden, my heart swelling almost to
bursting with anger, grief, and wounded pride. Somehow its neatness and
brightness seemed to mock me, and, in a fit of rage, I set my foot on
a beautiful white lily and crushed it into the earth. The deed was no
sooner done than repented. Bursting into tears, I raised the poor plant
from the ground. Its once white flower, all broken and smirched with
soil, seemed to reproach me with my cruelty. It was ruined beyond hope.
I wept over it till I could weep no more, and then, mournfully burying
it out of sight, I returned to the house.
That evening, as I was sitting in my own room, trying to divert myself
a little with my work, I received a summons to the parlor. There sat my
uncle, with the severest face I had ever seen him wear. In his hands he
held one of the flowers of the India tree, broken and soiled.
"Loveday, do you know any thing of this?" said he, sternly.
I felt myself change color, but answered firmly: "No, uncle. I saw four
flowers on the tree this morning, but I have not seen them since."
"That is not true," said he, more sternly still. "You were seen to pick
them, to crush them, and then bury them in the ground in your garden,
where this one was found just now."
"I did not do any such thing!" I answered, hotly enough. "I did kiss
one of them, because it looked so friendly at me, but I did not hurt
it, I know."
My uncle made a sign to Betty, who was standing by. To my utter
amazement, she declared that she and her grandmother had just stopped
me from destroying the flowers in the morning, and that watching me
afterward, from the chamber window, she had seen me carry something to
my garden and stamp it into the earth. She had not thought much about
it till she heard the flowers were missing, and then looking where she
had seen me at work, she found one of the flowers.
What could I say? I could only repeat my denial. I had never hurt the
flowers nor touched them, except that I had kissed one of them, as I
said.
"And this story you stand to, though Betty saw you with her own eyes
trying to spoil the flowers this morning?"
"Yes, I do stand to it!" I answered, driven to desperation by the plot
against me, and what seemed the hopelessness of my case. "Betty is a
liar and so is Madge, and some time you will find them out."
I think my uncle dared not trust himself to punish me. He knew the
infirmity of his own temper. I can feel for him, since I have the same
temper myself.
"I cannot have an obstinate liar and rebel in my family!" said he.
"Unless you confess and humble yourself, I must send you away."
I saw my aunt whisper something in his ear, but he shook his head, and
repeated: "Unless you confess and humble yourself, I must send you away
to the convent!"
"You may send me as soon as you please!" I retorted, desperate in my
misery and hopelessness, for I could see no way out of my trouble. "I
may as well be in one place as another, so long as nobody believes me,
or cares about me. I wish I had never come here!"
My aunt put out her hand between me and my uncle, as he started from
his seat; but there was no need, for whatever his impulse was, he
checked himself in a moment.
"Take this wicked child away, and let her remain by herself till she
shall come to a better mind!" said he. "I cannot now trust myself to
deal with her."
"You had better read over what you read in your great book the other
day about charity!" I retorted, naughty child that I was. "Any how the
Holy Virgin and the Saints know that I never touched the flower, and
they know who did, too." I saw Betty wince at this. "I will never care
for or believe in that book again, for it makes you unkind and wicked."
I did not see the effect of my bold words, for my aunt hurried me away.
She took me, not to my own bed-closet, but to a room in the front of
the house, next her own, which we children always called the Apostles'
room, because it had figures of the apostles wrought on the hangings.
Here she left me, turning the key upon me, but presently came back with
Sambo carrying a truckle bed, and whatever I needed for the night. My
wild anger had subsided into sullen grief by that time, and I never
spoke.
I was left alone till supper-time, when Betty came up, bringing me a
basin of milk and a slice of brown bread.
"Here is your supper, and a great deal better than you deserve!" said
she, in her provoking taunting tone—old fool that I am, the very
remembrance makes my blood boil. "Here is a fine end to your airs,
forsooth; a country wench to be set up for a lady!"
The words were not out of her mouth before she received a stinging box
on each ear from the hands of my aunt, who had followed her in time to
hear her words.
"Take that—and that—for thy impudence!" said my aunt, repeating the
application. "And let me hear you beg my niece's pardon directly or you
leave the house this hour. Country wench, indeed!" And again my aunt's
hand emphasized her remarks on Betty's cheek. *
"I beg your pardon, mistress!" sobbed Betty.
"That is well. But why are you here at all? I bade Sambo bring the
tray, and where are the manchets I laid upon it."
"Guess dat Betty eat 'em herself!" said Sambo, who stood thoroughly
enjoying Betty's disgrace, for they were old enemies. "I just went out
to bring Missy Lovely—" that was his version of my name—"a flower from
her own bed, and, see here, missy, what I find."
As he spoke, he held up a pair of scissors which we both know to be
Betty's.
* Much greater ladies than Mrs. Holland beat their maids till long
after this time. See Pepy's diary.
"Where did you find these?" asked my aunt.
"Sticking in the dirt in Missy Lovely garden," answered the negro. "I
tell you, Missy Holland, dat gal a deep one."
"Hush, Sambo, you forget yourself!" said my aunt, smiling. "Go down and
ask the cook for one of the new baked saffron cakes, and bring it up.
As for you, Betty, I shall watch you, and woe be to you if you have
spoken falsely, or if I hear you use another impertinent word. Go, now,
take your besom and sweep every bit of dust from the summer-house and
the paved walks. Finish the work before you leave it, and let me see it
done nicely, or I will lay one of the besom twigs about your shoulders."
I don't think my aunt was one bit sorry to have a legitimate cause for
falling upon Betty. When we were alone together, she sat down in a
great chair, and drawing me to her, spite of my resistance, she prayed
me most kindly and gently to tell her the whole truth.
"What is the use, aunt?" I asked, not so much sullenly as hopelessly.
"I have told the truth already, and nobody will believe me. You credit
Betty, though you know she tells lies, and I have never told a lie
since I came into the house. And even if you do, my uncle will not. I
thought he was the best man in the world, and now I never can think him
good any more!"
"You know, Loveday, no one would have thought of such a thing if you
had not been naughty before!" said my aunt, gently. "Have I not always
been good to you?"
"Yes, Aunt Joyce."
"And yet, because I gave you a just reproof for carelessness, you
answered me pertly, and then refused to make amends, as is every
Christian person's duty, whether they be young or old. Was that right?"
"I suppose not!" I answered, softening a little. "But indeed, aunt, I
am sure I did not break the glass. I never touched it, and was quite a
distance away when I heard it crack."
"Very well, I will take your account of it!" said my aunt, after a
little consideration. "But why could you not have said so, as well as
to answer me so pertly?"
"I am sorry I was pert!" I answered, softening as soon as I saw that my
aunt was disposed to do me justice. "I beg your pardon. But, indeed,
indeed, I did not break the Indian tree."
"Tell me all about it!" said my aunt. "How was it?"
I began and went over the whole story—how badly I had felt; how I went
to see the Indian tree, and had kissed one of the flowers, because I
fancied that it looked kindly at me; how Madge and Betty had accused
and taunted me; and how in my rage I broke the white lily.
"But that was very foolish!" said my aunt. "What had the poor lily
done?"
"Nothing, aunt! I was sorry the next minute, and I buried it in the
ground that I might not see the poor thing any more."
"That was what Betty saw you doing in your garden, then?"
"Yes, aunt; I suppose so."
My aunt mused a little, holding my hand in hers meantime. Then she
raised her head and said decidedly:
"Loveday, I am disposed to believe that you are telling the truth. I do
not think you hurt the flower, unless you broke it by accident, as you
say you kissed it. Are you sure you did not?"
"Yes, aunt; quite sure. Oh, Aunt Joyce, do believe me. I can't live if
every one thinks me a liar."
And then I began to cry again. My aunt hushed me and tried to make me
eat, but that I could not do. She then undressed me and put me to bed
with her blessing. My fierce indignation was all gone by that time, and
I began to hope that things would come right after all.
I don't know whether or not my aunt imparted to my uncle her own
convictions of my innocence, but if so, she did not succeed in
convincing him. I staid in my solitude all day, but I was allowed
my embroidery frame, and Sambo—with my aunt's connivance, I
imagine—brought his talking popinjay to amuse me. It was a very pretty
and entertaining bird, and I beguiled my solitude by teaching it some
new words and phrases.
Toward night, however, the scene outside became so gay and animated
that I almost forgot my grievances in watching it. As I have said, my
uncle's house was built with the upper stories overhanging, and my room
had besides a projecting window, so I could see up and down the street
for a long way. All the houses had been adorned with garlands of sweet
herbs and flowers, and branches of lights which were now being kindled
and made a fine show. Before every house of any consequence was set a
table with store of meat and drink, which was free to all comers. My
uncle's great chair was placed on the pavement, and Sambo stood behind
it dressed in his gayest suit. The maids, all in their best, were
gathered at an upper window to see the show, and Betty had put herself
particularly forward.
But now came the sound of music and the tramp of horses, and every
body was on the alert. Presently I saw the head of the procession
coming round the corner. First came sundry pageants, morris dancers
with bells, and so forth; then men in bright armor, each one with an
attendant bearing a light upon a pole. Then came the Mayor and his
attendants, on foot and on horseback, all with scarlet jerkins trimmed
with gold lace, and posies at their breasts. I knew one of the footmen
was Betty's bachelor, and had seen him more than once. As he came
abreast of the house, he looked up, and there, fastened in his jerkin,
were the missing flowers.
Somebody else had seen them too. As the man saw his mistress looking
at him, he put his hand to his cap to salute her, and in so doing,
he brushed the flowers from his breast. Before he had time to miss
them, Sambo sprang upon them like a black cat upon a mouse, put them
in his bosom, and returned to his place, before any one but myself,
and I think Betty, saw what he had done. She uttered some sort of
exclamation, and retired from the window, and though she presently
returned, I don't think she greatly enjoyed the rest of the show,
gorgeous as it was.
The procession passed with all its lights and music, its images of
giants, and all the rest of the show, and disappeared in the distance.
The tables were carried in, the lights extinguished, and I went to bed,
feeling greatly comforted by the thought that my innocence was like to
be established.
The next morning my dinner was brought me as usual, and it was not
till noon that my aunt came and led me down to the parlor. There sat
my uncle in his great chair, the withered red flowers on the table
before him. Teddy Stillman, Betty's sweetheart—a decent looking
whitesmith—stood near, twirling his flat cap in his hands, his honest
face cast down with a look of grief and shame. Sambo stood behind his
master's chair, like a statue done in ebony, and Betty was crying in a
corner. My uncle held out his hand to me and bade me approach.
"Do you see these flowers, niece?"
"Yes, uncle," I answered.
"Do you know where they were found?"
"Yes, uncle."
And being further questioned, I told him what I had seen from my window
the night before. The laundry-woman testified to seeing red flowers
fall, and Sambo pick them up, but she had not understood the matter.
She thought they were roses.
"It skills not talking further, Master Corbet," said the whitesmith,
raising his eyes and speaking in a modest, manly sort of way. "It is
true that I had these same red flowers in my breast, and dropped them,
but I saw not the blackamoor pick them up."
"But how came you by them—that is the question," said my uncle. "There
is not their like in London, as I well know. I beg of you, Stillman,
to tell me the whole truth, and you will see my reason for it when I
tell you that this young lady, my niece, hath been accused of wantonly
destroying them, on the witness of Betty Davis, who declares that she
saw Mistress Loveday Corbet about to break them off and stopped her,
and afterward watched her bury something in her own garden-bed, where
she, Betty, professed to find one of the flowers."
"I only said," Betty began; but her grandam stopped her with a clutch
at her arm and a muttered "Be quiet, wench; you will but make matters
worse."
Teddy Stillman cast upon his sweetheart a look of grief, which must
have touched her heart if she had any, and then turned to my uncle.
"I must needs speak, since it is to clear the innocent," said he.
"Betty gave me these flowers yesterday with her own hand, at the back
gate, when I came to put up the branches for the lights. She said
the cat had broken down the plant, and her mistress said she might
have them. So I took them, thinking no evil, as she hath often given
me flowers and posies of rosemary and lavender, which she said her
mistress had given her."
"So that is what became of my lavender buds," said my aunt, who was
great in distilling and compounding of herbs, and worshiped her
lavender beds as if they had been the shrines of saints.
My uncle dismissed Teddy, with thanks and commendation for his
frankness, but I noticed he did not offer him any money. The poor lad
made his obeisance, and passed out without so much as looking at his
sweetheart. Then my uncle, in presence of the whole family, declared
his belief in my entire innocence of what had been charged to me, and,
turning to me, he asked my pardon, saying he had been too ready to
condemn me on the evidence of one who had proved herself a thief and a
liar. This concession on my uncle's part dissolved in a moment all the
remains of my stubbornness.
"No, no, uncle!" I cried, dropping on my knees. "It was I that was
wicked and obstinate, and I am sorry; and I begged aunt's pardon
before. Please forgive me, uncle, and I will not be pert any more."
"We will both forgive and forget," said my uncle, raising and kissing
me.
"You have need to thank Sambo, niece, for it was his sharp sight and
quick hand which brought to light the proofs of your innocence. Give
him your hand."
I did so willingly, and Sambo kissed it with many grins and giggles.
Then the servants were dismissed, and presently I saw Sambo dancing
a dance of triumph on the stones of the garden walk, to the music of
his own singing and whistling. The twins were overjoyed, and would
have given me all their most cherished possessions to celebrate the
event. My uncle said he would take us to the Tower to see the lions,
and bade us get ready. I escaped for a little, and shutting myself in
my own little room, I said a prayer for forgiveness and repeated a
paternoster. As I did so, the sense of the words came to me as never
before, and I resolved that I would try to forgive even Betty.
We went to the Tower and saw the lions—two very fine fellows—a leopard
and some other wild creatures, and enjoyed the fearful pleasure of
feeding the great brown bear with cakes. On the way home, my uncle took
us to see some of the goldsmiths' and other fine shops, and bought us
each a fairing. At one place, a silk mercer's, he asked the elderly man
in attendance about his son.
"He hath not yet returned," said the old man, shaking his head; "a
dangerous service, Master Corbet—a dangerous service; but we must not
withhold even Isaac when the Lord calls for him."
"Truly not, my brother," answered mine uncle; "but I hope the need of
these perilous journeys may soon be past. I heard it from one that
knows what goes on at Court, that his Grace is like to be moved of his
royal bounty to give to this land a free gospel before long."
The old man's face lighted up: "The Lord fulfill it—the Lord fulfill
it, Master Corbet. But think you it is true? The Chancellor is very
bitter against Master Tyndale?"
"The Chancellor is like to need his breath to cool his own porridge, if
all tales be true," said my uncle; "but this is not the place, nor does
it become us to be talking of such matters. I hope your son may soon
return in safety."
When we reached home, which we did in time for supper, Betty was
missing. Anne, the laundry-woman, slept in our room that night. The
next day we heard that Betty had been sent to her home in the country,
and old Madge had gone with her, not choosing to stay after her
favorite grandchild was disgraced. I don't think my aunt was very sorry
to have the old woman go of her own accord, though she would never have
sent her away, for the poor thing was grown so cankered and jealous
that she kept the house in hot water. After Betty's departure, some
of the other maids were very forward in their tales of her dishonest
practices and running out of nights, but my aunt treated these tales
with very little ceremony, saying that the time to have told them was
not behind Betty's back, but when she was there to speak for herself.
I hardly ever saw any one with such a strong sense of justice as Aunt
Joyce. It showed itself in all she did, and was one secret of her
success in governing a household.
Things had now returned to their usual course. I went about my lessons
and my play with the other children, and, warned by what had happened,
was careful to give no just cause of offense. My uncle was kinder to me
than ever, but there was a cloud on his brow and a look of sadness on
his face when his eyes rested on me that I could not understand, and
which made me vaguely uneasy.
Once I heard my aunt say in a tone of deep regret, "Ah, nephew, if only
you had not been so hasty."
And my uncle muttered, "Mea culpa, mea culpa," and hid his face in his
hands.
It was about two weeks after the affair of the flowers that I was
coming in from the garden, when I saw some one that I knew to be a
priest by his dress, passing into mine uncle's private room. I was not
greatly surprised, for we had many clerical visitors, but they were
usually secular priests, while this man was a regular.
I went up to my room—we had been promoted to the tapestry room since
Madge went away, and felt quite grown up in consequence—washed my
hands, and put on a clean kerchief and pinafore, those I wore being
the worse for my labors in the garden. As I was finishing my dressing
operations, my aunt entered the room, and I saw in a moment that she
had been weeping. All of a sudden—I don't know how—a cold weight seemed
to fall on my heart. I have had many such premonitions of evil in my
day, and they have never come without cause.
"My dear child," said she, and then she fell a-weeping as if her heart
would break, for a minute or two, I standing by, wondering what could
have happened, and feeling sure that whatever it was, it concerned
myself. All of a sudden, a notion came across me, and I cried out in
anguish:
"Oh, aunt, have they come to take me away to the convent?"
"It is even so, my child," said my aunt, commanding herself with a
great effort. "The prioress of the convent at Dartford hath sent for
you, and my nephew hath no choice but to let you go."
If a tree that is torn up by the roots can feel, it must feel very
much as I did that morning. I had taken very deep root in my new
home, and, except during the sad time when I was in trouble about
the flowers, I had been very happy. I had come to love my aunt and
uncle dearly, and the twins had become, as it were, a part of my very
heart. I loved the pleasant, easy ways of my uncle's household, where
each was made comfortable according to his degree; where abundance
and cheerful hospitality sat at the board, and peace and love were
our chamber-mates, and watched over our pillows. My uncle was
hasty-tempered, it was true, but even a child as I was could see what a
watch he kept over himself in this respect.
But alas, and woe is me. Such a temper is like a package of gunpowder.
The fire thereof is out in an instant, but in that instant it hath done
damage that can never be repaired.
I was absolutely stricken dumb by the greatness of the calamity which
had overtaken me, and could not speak a word. I think my aunt was
frightened at my silence; for she kissed and tried to rouse me. At last
I faltered—
"Must I go to-day?"
"I fear so, my dear lamb. The prioress of the convent has sent for you
by the hands of their priest, and as two ladies are to travel down into
Kent with him, you will be well attended."
With that, my aunt bestirred herself, and called Anne, the
laundry-woman, to help in getting my clothes together. The twins had
come in by that time; they had been away to visit some old kinswoman of
their mother's, and they had to be told the news: Both Katherine and
Avice cried bitterly, but I could not cry. I was like one stunned.
At last, at my uncle's summons, I was called down to the parlor to
speak with the priest. He was a good-natured looking, easy-going
specimen of a regular, and greeted me kindly enough, bestowing his
blessing as I kneeled to receive it, in that rapid, mechanical fashion
I so well remembered in Father Barnaby and Father John.
"And so you are coming to the convent to be a holy sister, as my good
Lady Peckham desires!" said he. Then to my uncle: "In truth, 'tis a
fair offering, Master Corbet. I almost wonder that having such a jewel
in your hands, you should give her up—that is, if she be as towardly as
she is fair of face?"
"Loveday is a good child in the main, though she has her faults and
follies like other children!" replied my uncle.
"And grown folks, too, eh, Master Corbet?" said the priest, with a
jolly laugh. "I don't know that the follies of youth are worse than the
follies of age, do you?"
"They are not a tenth part as bad!" said mine uncle, with a good deal
of bitterness. "'There is no fool like an old fool,' is a true and
pithy saying."
"Even over true!" returned the priest; then turning to me: "Well,
daughter, you must have wondered that you were left so long, that is,
if you thought of it at all. The truth is, Sister Benedict, who had the
matter in charge, died soon after she came to us, and the affair was
quite forgotten, till your good uncle's letter reminding the prioress
of her duty; she looked over some papers Sister Benedict had left, and
found my Lady Peckham's letter."
So it was my uncle's doing. I remembered all at once his own words: "I
will not have an obstinate liar in my family—" and the cloud that had
rested on his brow ever since. He had done the deed in one of his hasty
fits of temper, and only for him, the prioress would never have thought
of sending for me.
Folks are apt to talk slightingly of the sorrows of childhood, but they
must be those who do not remember their own. When a cup is full, it is
full, and that whether it hold a gill or a gallon. I had been unhappy
enough before at the prospect of going away, but that unhappiness was
nothing to the tide of wretchedness, of disappointed love and impotent
anger that swept over me. I think my first clear thought was that I
would never let my uncle see that I was sorry to go away. So when the
priest asked me again whether I would like to go to the convent I
courtesied and said, in a voice which did not somehow seem to be my own:
"Yes, reverend father, I shall like it very much!"
My uncle looked at me with a face of grieved surprise.
"Are you indeed so glad to leave us, niece!" said he.
"I am glad to go, if you want me to go, uncle!" I answered, in the
same hard voice. "I don't want to stay when you want to get rid of me,
only—" and here I broke down—"only I wish they had buried me in the
same grave with my father and mother, and then I should not be given
away from one to another, like a poor fool or a dog that is in every
one's way!"
I do think I was the boldest, naughtiest child that ever lived, or I
should not have dared to speak so to my elders.
My uncle started from his chair as if something had stung him, and went
hastily out of the room.
The priest looked out of the window. My aunt laid her hand on my
shoulder with that soft yet firm touch which always had a great effect
in calming my tantrums, as old Madge used to call them, and whispered
me to recollect myself and not anger my uncle.
Presently Father Austin called me to him, and began in a gentle,
fatherly way, to tell me how pleasant was the priory at Dartford,
what a nice garden the ladies had, and what fine sweetmeats they
made—talking as one like himself would naturally talk to a child. He
was ever a kind soul, and glad I am that I have had it in my power to
succor his reverend age. But that is going a very long way before my
tale.
"I trust the lady prioress will be kind to my niece," said my Aunt
Joyce.
"I think you need have no fear on that score," answered Father Austin;
"though the little one is not like to have much to do with her. She
will be under the care of the mistress of the novices, an excellent
woman, though I say it that should not, she being mine own sister, and
you need have no fears for her well-being."
Sambo now announced dinner, and my aunt led the way to the dining-room,
where she had prepared quite a feast to do honor to our guest, and
perhaps to put him in a good humor, though that was quite needless. I
think the good man was the only one who enjoyed the collation, though
my uncle strove to eat out of courtesy, and my aunt heaped my plate
with delicacies which I could not touch.
"And now we must be stirring, for the days grow shorter than they were,
and I would fain be at home before dark, though we travel in good
company," said the priest. "There are two young ladies of the family
of Sir James Brandon who travel down with us, and the knight will send
a sufficient escort with them. So, if it please you, Mistress Holland,
let the child be made ready as soon as may be."
"Her packing is all done, and it remains but to say farewell," said my
aunt. "My nephew hath also provided two serving men, one to ride before
Loveday, and the other to drive down and bring back the Sumpter mule."
"Sumpter mule! What is that about a sumpter mule?" asked Father Austin.
"Does my young mistress need a sumpter mule to carry her court dresses?
She will have small need of finery where she is going, Mistress
Holland."
"A child of eight years has small need of finery any where, to my
thinking," answered Mistress Holland. "I am not one that likes to see a
young maid dizzened out. But my brother has prepared a present for the
ladies."
"But a web or two of Hollands and black Cyprus lawn, with some packets
of spices, sugar, and the like," said my uncle, carelessly. "And since
your reverence is pleased to like the white wine, I have ordered a
case to be put up for your own drinking. 'Tis a light and wholesome
beverage."
"Many thanks—many thanks!" said the monk. "Some people might say you
meant to secure a good reception for your niece—but, indeed, you need
not fear for her," he added, kindly. "The house at Dartford is of good
repute, and our prioress is a most excellent lady, of the noble family
of Percy. Most of our sisters are also gentlewomen of good family.
I give you my word, Master Corbet, that Mistress Loveday shall have
every care, though I dare not promise her such feasts and luxuries as
Mistress Holland provides."
"Luxuries are of little account to children, but kindness is every
thing," said my uncle.
"And that, I promise you, she shall not lack," answered the priest,
seriously; then, turning to me: "Come, daughter, ask your uncle's
blessing, and take leave of your cousins. Some day, perhaps, they may
come and see you, but it skills not lingering when parting must come at
last."
Mechanically, I kneeled to my uncle, who folded me in his arms.
"The blessing and prayers of an unworthy sinner go with thee, my poor
child!" said he. "Remember, whatever happens, thou wilt ever have a
home and a portion in thy uncle's house."
"She may need it yet, if things go on as they have begun," muttered the
priest.
My cousins kissed me, and sobbed out their farewells as well as they
could for weeping. I went out to the side door, where the priest's
sleek mule, and my uncle's two men were waiting with their animals.
My uncle kissed me again as he lifted me to my place behind Jacob
Saunders, and whispered:
"I shall come to see thee soon, dear child. Try to be happy, and
remember my house and heart are always open when you need a home."
"Why did you send me away, then?" I said bitterly, more to myself than
him.
He heard me though, and answered, solemnly:
"Because I was a hasty fool, child. Pray for your poor uncle, and if
you can, for your own sake, forgive him."
The priest now mounted his mule, and exchanged a courteous farewell
with my uncle and aunt. The beasts were put in motion, we turned the
corner, and in a moment, I lost sight of the house where I had been so
happy for four long months. It was many a year before I saw it again.
So closed one chapter of my life. It always did seem to me that I left
my childhood behind me at that moment.
I have been the more particular in my account of my days in London, as
matters have so greatly changed since that time. The little almshouses
where we used to go to carry milk to the poor bedesmen and women are
all swept away, and the ground mostly built over. What became of the
old people I know not, but Sir Thomas Audley came into possession of
the land, which he afterward gave to Maudlin College at Cambridge.
There is not a religious foundation of any kind left in London, and St.
Anthony and his pigs are equally to seek. St. Paul's hath been burned
to the ground—by lightning, as was believed at the time and long after,
till the sexton confessed on his death-bed that it was by his own
fault—and is now in process of rebuilding.
The city of London is almost twice as large as it was then; many
places which I knew as open fields being built up, and whole streets
stretching out into the country. America, which at that time was not
known to many people at all—I am sure I never heard of it till I came
to London—is now visited by English ships every year, and merchandise
brought from thence. It is a changed world, and on the whole much for
the better, whatever old folks may say.
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