THE LIGHTNING STRIKES AGAIN.
THE old man was right. With the spring came rumors of renewed attacks
upon the religious foundations all over the country. We heard before of
the execution of the Bishop of Rochester, who laid down his gray head
upon the block because he would not acknowledge the king to be pope—for
that is what it amounted to. (Nothing can be more absurd than to call
Henry the Eighth a Protestant.) Our own prioress might be said to have
died in the same cause.
Nobody had appeared to administer the oath to our present head,
however, and we had begun to think that we were to be let alone. I do
not believe that the reverend mother had any such hopes. Our foundation
was a wealthy one, and our church was well-known to be unusually rich
in gold and silver. There was abundance of shrines, reliquaries and
boxes, as valuable for their splendid workmanship as for the precious
metals of which they were made, and the jewels with which they were
incrusted. Then there were missals set with precious stones, beautiful
hangings and vestments, and vessels, and candlesticks, and the like.
These articles were all displayed upon feast days, and when our great
altar was lighted up at the festival of our Patroness, it was a
spectacle almost too bright for mortal eyes.
Such a prey was not likely very long to escape the teeth and claws of
my Lord Cromwell, and his master. Bishop Gardiner himself was very
forward in promoting the king's designs upon the religious houses (for
as devout as he afterward professed himself). He was our visitor, as I
have said, and when the very shepherd is in league with the wolves, the
silly sheep have little chance of escape.
It was on a beautiful morning in May that destruction overtook us.
We had just come out of chapel for our recreation, when we heard a
thundering knocking at the great gate, and the portress going to
open it, found a couple of gentlemen, and our old friend, or enemy,
the bishop's chaplain, with letters from my Lord Cromwell and Bishop
Gardiner for the prioress and community.
We were all in the garden, huddled together and watching afar off, when
the mother assistant called us to come into the ante-room of the choir,
where we were wont to put on the long mantles which we wore in church.
We were bid to array ourselves as quickly as possible and get ourselves
into the usual order of our procession. This being done, and preceded
by the cross-bearers, as was the way in our grand processionals, the
singers passed into the choir, singing as usual, I being at the organ,
which I was accustomed to play for all church services. The youngest
sisters came first and the prioress last.
Father Austin stood near the altar, his head bowed down with grief, yet
commanding himself like a man. The bishop's chaplain and the two other
visitors stood beside him, and the latter were passing their remarks
freely enough upon all they saw, and even on the figures and faces of
the sisters. Standing upon the chancel steps they could look directly
into the choir, which no one in the body of the church could see at
all. I must do our ladies the justice to say that they seemed, one and
all, totally unconscious of the presence of these strange men. Even
Sister Perpetua was awed into decent behavior.
When all were in their places, the chaplain announced his errand.
He had come, by the authority of the king and his minister, my Lord
Cromwell, to demand the surrender of the charter of that house to
his majesty, with all treasures of every sort, and all superstitious
relics, whereof my lord was well informed we possessed a great number.
All members of the family were to be at liberty to depart whither
they would, being furnished, by the king's liberality, with a suit of
secular clothing. As to the house and its contents, they were to be at
the absolute disposition of the king, and no one was to presume, on
pain of felony, to secrete, carry off, or make away with any article
whatever, though by the king's special grace and favor toward the
bishop, the sisters might take any books or other property of their
own, not above the value of three marks. * The visitors had brought
down articles of surrender for the prioress to sign, and two of the
commissioners would remain to take an inventory of our goods, and see
such as were of value packed for removal.
* See many such surrenders in the Camden Miscellany and in
Fuller's Church History.
I do not suppose that any one now can estimate the shock of this
declaration. I do think, if the earth had quaked and shaken down church
and convent in one common ruin, it would not have amazed and horrified
us as much. I am sure when the spire was struck by lightning—whereby
two of our bells were melted—we were not nearly as astounded. *
I, hidden away in the organ loft, could watch the faces of the sisters.
One or two burst into tears, but the greater part were too much stunned
to move. The prioress was very pale, but she spoke in her usual even,
somewhat deep voice.
* Fuller notes, as remarkable, the number of abbeys and priories
which were, at one time or another, burned by lightning. He gives
a list of thirteen thus destroyed.
"These are heavy tidings you bring us, gentlemen. How have we been so
unfortunate as to fall under his Grace's displeasure?"
The gentlemen looked at each other, and one of them began reciting a
long list of the sins and shortcomings of the religious houses, whereby
his majesty was moved, by his zeal for true religion, to suppress all
houses below a certain value—two hundred pounds a year—I believe. The
prioress heard him to the end, and answered in the same calm tone.
"For the misorders and scandals whereof you speak, I can answer for
no house but my own. Sure I am, that for the forty years I have lived
in these hallowed walls, no such thing has happened here, and as our
revenues are nearer to three hundred a year than two, I see not how his
Grace's royal will applies to us."
"We will be the judges of that," answered the commissioner, arrogantly.
"As to the matter of scandals, we have been better informed by some of
your own number. There have been scandals enow, especially of late.
Will you dare tell me, woman, that no young men have been entertained
in this house—that there has been no junketing and carousing in
the very parlor of the prioress herself. I tell you we have sure
information, and will you dare to deny it?"
The prioress paused for a little, and let her eyes travel from face
to face round the circle. When she came to Sister Perpetua and Sister
Regina, she looked them in the face for a full minute. There was no
need to inquire further who was the false witness. Their visages spoke
for them. (It was much the same with all the religious houses. There
was always some traitor in the camp, ready, whether for greed of gain
or to curry favor, or because of weariness of their vows, to inform
against their brethren.) The lady was about to speak again, when the
other commissioner interrupted her. He was the elder of the two, and
altogether more decent in his demeanor.
"Under your favor, honored lady, I would counsel you to take time for
advisement, and to read the letter sent you by your reverend visitor,
which his chaplain will hand you. After that, we will hear your
decision."
"It is well spoken, sir," answered the prioress. "Meantime, please you,
gentlemen, to withdraw to the house of Father Austin, our priest and
confessor, where I will give order for your entertainment."
"Nay, reverend mother, methinks the common fare of your refectory will
suit us well enough," returned the younger man. "If all tales be true,
we are not the first who have had such entertainment, and methinks we
were safer to make you our taster."
The reverend mother made no reply to his impudence, but giving a sign
to the sisters, they withdrew as they had entered. When all had passed
but herself and the mother assistant, she advanced to the wide grating
which separated the choir from the church, and held out her hand,
covered with a fold of her robe, for the bishop's letter. The elder man
gave it her with a reverence for which I liked him all the better, and
said, in a low tone, as the other turned away:
"Be advised, madam. Resistance can do no good, and will bring only
heavier calamity on yourself and your flock. Be advised, and follow
your visitor's counsel."
"I thank you, sir, for your words, which I see are kindly meant," said
the prioress; "but I must have little time to consider the matter. How
long can you give me?"
He called back his brother commissioner, and after consultation,
in which he seemed to press some point which the other yielded
unwillingly, he turned and said: "Till to-morrow at this hour, madam."
"I thank you," said the lady once more—and passed out of the door. I
closed my instrument, not without a sob, as I thought I might never
touch it again, and followed the reverend mother.
It was now the time for dinner, but the bell had not been rung. The
sisters were standing talking together in excited groups, and many
an angry and contemptuous glance was cast at the two traitors. The
prioress at once restored order, and bade the portress ring the bell
for dinner.
"Let us have no misorder—no relaxation of discipline on what may
perhaps be our last day in this blessed inclosure," said she.
"Slandered we have been and may be, but let us keep our own consciences
clear and unstained. That comfort no one can take from us."
It was a feast day, and our cheer was better than common, but nobody
felt like eating. The ceremonies of the table went on as usual,
however, and the reader's voice never faltered. After dinner came
recreation, and then the tongues were let loose again.
"Well, for my part, I care not what becomes of me after this," said
Sister Sacristine. "I have lived too long."
"Do not say that, sister," returned Mother Bridget, gently. "We cannot
say what gracious purpose may yet be in store for us."
"Don't talk of gracious purposes!" said the Sacristine, angrily. "Here
have I been serving the blessed Magdalene all these years, wearing
my fingers to the bone cleaning of her shrine with wash leather and
hartshorn salts and what not, and this is what I get by it. And to see
the holy relics carried off and dispersed after all my care."
The poor old lady burst into tears and wept bitterly, and more than one
joined her.
As for me, I stole away to a favorite place of retirement—a little
shrine or oratory in the orchard, half hidden by trees and thick,
clustering ivy. Here I was used to keep certain books of my own—a Latin
Imitation and Psalter, and a prayer book which I had brought from my
old home at Peckham Hall. I hoped for a little solitude to collect my
thoughts, but I was disappointed.
As I drew near, I heard men's voices in the building, and recognized
them for those of the old Scotch gardener and Mr. Lethbridge, the
younger commissioner.
"So this is the jaw-bone of St. Lawrence, is it?" said the latter; and
peeping through a crack, I saw with horror that he was tossing it up
and down in his hand. "It looks more like a pig's jaw to me."
"Maybe," answered Adam. "Ye'll be a better judge of that article than
me. It was aye called the jaw of St. Lawrence in my time."
"What of it—suppose it was?" said the other, arrogantly. "What good
could it do any one? For my part, I care no more for St. Lawrence's jaw
than for Mahomet's."
"I would na speak scornfully of the jaw of Mahomet gin I were talking
to a Turk," retorted Adam. "I might argue wi' him, gin I thought it
would be to edification, but I would na scorn at him. I would think it
ill manners."
For all answer, Mr. Lethbridge tossed the relic from him, and ordered
the gardener to show him the rest of the grounds. When they were gone,
I entered the chapel, and having gathered my books together, I picked
up the jaw of St. Lawrence, which certainly had an odd shape for a
man's, wiped the dust from it, and laid it back in its place. Then,
a sudden thought striking me, I dug a hole in the earth, at the foot
of the great honeysuckle, and buried it; and there it may be now, for
aught I know.
Our services went on as usual during the day—the last day, perhaps,
they would ever be performed in those walls which had heard prayers
and chants for so many hundred years. It was touching to see how
punctiliously almost all the sisters performed every duty, even the
smallest.
There were exceptions, however. As I said, we had two or three who had
no vocation whatever, and they tried to take liberties, and were not
ashamed to exchange mocking glances and whispers, even in the hour of
meditation. Nobody took any notice of them, however, except to draw
away when they came near as if they had the pestilence. I remember
Sister Regina took hold of the sleeve of Sister Anne's habit to draw
her attention to something, she being a little deaf, whereupon the old
lady, having her scissors in her hand, deliberately cut out the place
Regina had touched and trampled it under her feet. It was not a very
Christian act, perhaps, but we were all glad of it. Sister Regina did
have the grace to look abashed for a moment, the more that she had
always been rather a favorite with Sister Anne.
That evening, just before bed-time, Sister Sacristine met me in the
gallery and drew me aside into the sacristy, and then into a little
inner vaulted room where our most valuable relics were stored, when not
exposed to the adoration of the faithful. The precious shrines which
were used at these times were kept in another place, whereof the key
was already in the hands of the commissioners. Shutting the door, and
opening a dark lantern which she carried, she whispered in my ear:
"Loveday, you are a brave girl. I remember how you faced the bull that
day he got out. Will you help me to save our most precious relic from
profanation?"
"If I can!" said I, doubtfully. "But what is it you want to do?"
She glanced round, and then whispered in my ear:
"I want to let out the Virgin's smoke. But the stopper is too stiff for
my fingers, and I want you to open it and let the smoke out. Then we
can leave the bottle as we found it!"
Now this bottle of smoke from the Blessed Mother's hearth at Bethlehem
was, indeed, our most precious relic, and was looked upon with awful
reverence. I fully sympathized with Sister Sacristine's desire to save
it from profanation, but I was rather scared at the idea of touching
it, not knowing exactly what it might do if it got out.
"Do you think it would be safe?" I asked. "You know how when the
over-curious priest opened the vial to smell of it, a huge volume of
black smoke issued from it and blasted him as by lightning."
"Yes, but that was different. His was a profane motive, and ours is a
devout one. Oh, Loveday, do help me. I can't endure to think of the
blessed smoke in that wretch's hands, and, besides, who can tell what
it might do."
"I wish it would smother him and Father Simon both!" said I,
spitefully. "And Perpetua and Regina as well."
"Oh, my child, we must forgive our persecutors, you know, and I do try.
But you will help me, won't you, and I will pray for you all my life."
"Yes, I will help you," I said. "What do you wish me to do?"
"That is a good girl. May all the saints and angels have you in their
keeping."
As she spoke she took from a box a little bottle of greenish material,
covered with bright flowers somewhat raised. It had a stopper and cap
of gold, very curiously wrought, with a hasp or clasp. I suppose no
young person who has grown up under the present state of things, can
guess the profound awe with which I received the little vessel into
my hand. We both kissed it reverently, and then with some trouble, I
loosed the hasp and took out the stopper, while we both fell on our
knees. Our eyes were fixed on the precious bottle to await whatever
might happen. But the surprising thing was, that nothing happened at
all. The little vessel lay upon its side in my hand as innocent and
pretty as a maids fairing, but there was no smoke—not even a smell of
burning.
"Alas! Alas!" sobbed Sister Sacristine, "The Holy Mother has already
withdrawn from this house and taken her smoke with her! The glory has
departed. Alas! Alas for us! Our Holy Mother has been offended and has
withdrawn her protection from these walls. I fear my sins have helped
to draw this judgment on us. Mea culpa! Mea culpa!"
For myself, I confess I had a different feeling. I could not see what
the Blessed Virgin should want with her smoke if she had gone away.
Sister Sacristine's face being buried in her robe, I ventured to turn
the mouth of the bottle to the light and even to smell of it. The
inside was quite white and clean, and had a faint odor of musk. (Years
afterward I found this very bottle, minus the gold ornaments, at a pawn
shop in London and bought it for a trifle. My son says it is one of the
little things they make in China by the thousand and sell for a few
pence. It had been in possession of our house for a very long time, and
was no doubt brought from the East by some pilgrim.)
"Dear sister, do not cry so," said I, at last. "Perhaps Our Lady has
herself taken away this precious relic that it might not be profaned."
"You don't think it is a miracle, do you?" asked the sister,
brightening up.
"Perhaps so," I answered.
"Dear Sister Postulant, how clever you are," said the old lady, wiping
her eyes; "I should not have thought of that? Oh, if you could only
take the veil here, you would be Superior before you were thirty. But,
ah me! Nobody will ever put on the blessed veil in this house again."
"Don't cry any more, dear sister," said I; "and do not let us stay
any longer in this damp place; you will have the rheumatism again,
and besides, the bell will ring in a minute and we ought to be in our
cells."
With much ado, I got her away and helped her to bed, for she was very
feeble. I could not help wondering what would become of her. She had
come from a distant part of the country and had no living relations
that she knew of, and she was growing infirm and rather childish.
It was our custom to assemble at six o'clock in the community room,
to give the reverend mother an account of the work we had done and
the books we had read the day before. When we were all together, the
prioress told us the substance of our visitor's letter. It simply
amounted to this, that there was no use in resistance, since it would
only exasperate the king and his minister. The commissioners had orders
to turn us all out of doors without ceremony in such a case; whereas,
by giving way at once, we might be allowed to remain in our old home
a few days, till we could provide ourselves with some other shelter.
(He did not say how or where this provision was to be made.) If there
was any sin in the case, which he did not think, he would give a full
absolution. The whole might as well have been put into one sentence:
"You will have to go, so you may as well go quietly."
"It seems we have no choice and nothing to do," said Mother Joanna.
"Nothing to do but to submit to the hand of violence, committing our
cause to Him who judgeth righteously. As to those who for their own
ends have slandered and belied this house," she added, "let them
beware. There was pardon for Peter, who denied his Lord, for Thomas who
doubted, and for the rest who forsook him. It was only Judas, who sold
him, of whom it was said: 'It were better for that man if he had never
been born.'"
The lady said these solemn words in a tone of sorrow and reproach which
might have moved a heart of stone, but I think that Perpetua had not so
much as that. But Sister Regina, who was much younger and more foolish
than wicked—I do think most of the mischief in the world is done by
fools—burst into tears, and sobbing as if her heart would break, she
fell on her knees at the mother's feet, kissed the floor and entreated
for pardon.
"I forgive you, my poor child," said the prioress, sadly; "in my own
name, and those of your mothers and sisters, I forgive you; but alas!
Your penitence, inestimable as it is to yourself, cannot undo what you
have done. My mothers and sisters, is it your will that I act according
to the terms of this letter?"
The asking was only a form, for there was clearly nothing else to be
done. Accordingly, when we were again assembled in the choir at nine
o'clock, the prioress formally surrendered the keys, saying that she
did so in obedience to the orders of our visitor, and praying only
for a few days' grace, that the sisters might be able to make some
provision for themselves.
"Surely," said Doctor Willard, the elder gentleman, "it were hard to
refuse so small a boon as that."
"I thank you, sir," said the prioress; "may you also find grace in your
time of utmost need. Here, then, are the keys; I put them into your
hands. For the rest, I and my poor children commit ourselves and our
cause to Heaven, since we have no hope in this world."
There was a burst of sobs and tears from the mothers and sisters at
these words. The prioress alone remained calm, though her face was pale
as the marble Virgins above her head. Even Mr. Lethbridge was awed into
silence for a few minutes by the dignity of her manner.
"One word more I must say," added the prioress; "as for the bruits
which you say have come to your ears touching scandals in this house,
I pronounce them utterly false, slanderous and wicked. During the
twenty years that I have been assistant within these walls, there has
been but one case of scandal, and that was simply an elopement, which
happened some eight years ago. For the rest, I defy any one but the
most hardened liar and slanderer to say aught against the fair fame of
these my dear children."
Mr. Lethbridge openly exchanged glances with Sister Perpetua, but
Sister Regina kept her eyes steadfastly fixed upon the ground, while
her face flamed with blushes.
"Since you have resigned the house, madam, there is no need to enter
into that matter," said Dr. Willard, repressing his colleague, who was
about to speak. "For myself, I do not believe these tales to be any
thing but the outcome of private malice and revenge, and dictated by
the meanest motive."
It was now Sister Perpetua's turn to redden.
"You go too far, Dr. Willard," said Mr. Lethbridge. "Remember, sir,
that I am joined with you in this commission."
"I am not likely to forget what is due either to you or myself," said
Doctor Willard, calmly. "Madam, we will now excuse your attendance upon
what must needs be painful to you. You can keep possession of your own
apartments and those of the ladies, only they must be searched to see
that no treasure is concealed, as has been the case in other places."
He bowed, as if in dismissal, and we left the choir in our order of
procession for the last time.
What a day that was. The prioress bade all those who still acknowledged
her authority, which were all but three or four, to gather together
such little matters as they were allowed to carry away with them,
and then to resort to the community room, where they were to occupy
themselves in reading and prayer, and such needlework as was necessary.
She warned us against concealing any thing of value, as it would only
bring us and herself into trouble. Our little packets were soon made
up, and we gathered together, a sad and sorrowing family.
Only Sister Perpetua, and one or two like her, openly threw off all
allegiance, put on, at the first possible minute, the secular dresses
provided, and went roaming all about the place, talking with the
comers and goers who were now profaning our sacred inclosure. For,
finding the great gates open, which they had always seen locked and
barred, the people of the neighboring hamlet, and from the village of
Dartford, were ready enough to gratify their curiosity, as perhaps was
only natural. Some were kind and feeling; others openly jeered at our
misfortunes, and rejoiced at our downfall; and among these last were
several mendicants, who had had their living from our daily doles.
In truth, this daily almsgiving at the gates of these religious houses,
brought any thing but respectable people about them.
"Yes, give us the broken pieces and the old clothes, while you eat
white bread and drink wine, will you?" mumbled one old woman, for whom
I had myself made a new flannel petticoat and serge kirtle only a week
before. "We shall see who will have the old clothes and the broken bits
now."
"You wont, that's certain, and glad I am, you ungrateful old beldam,"
said a decent looking woman, who was making her way through the crowd
with a basket on her arm. "Who do you think will feed you, ungrateful
wretches that you are, when the ladies are gone? Will the king, or the
great lord or gentleman who gets the place, do ought for such as you,
think you? No, indeed; not even broken crusts will you get, much less
such an outfit as was given you last week." Then, catching sight of me,
for I had come out upon some errand, I forget what, she continued:
"Young lady, may I ask if Sister Elizabeth is still living—she who used
to teach in the school?"
"Oh, you mean she who is now the Sacristine?" said I, after a moment's
thought, for I had never heard her called by that name more than once
or twice. "Yes, she is living, but quite infirm."
"Poor heart, and to be turned out in her old age—but that she shall not
be, so long as Hester Lee has a roof over mun's head—that she shan't!"
said the good woman. "Could 'ee bring me to speak with her, my lamb?"
"Come with me," said I, rejoicing at her words, for I had been very
unhappy about the poor old sister.
I led the way to a little parlor, and the prioress passing at the
moment I told her the woman's errand.
"I am only a mariner's wife, keeping a shop for small wares in
Dartford, madam," said the woman, in answer to the reverend mother's
question, "but I have enough and to spare. I well remember the lady's
goodness to me, a poor orphan maid, among people whose very tongue was
strange to me, and who never had a kind word to sweeten the bread they
grudged to their brother's orphan. Ah, madam, strange bread is bitter
enough to those who have to eat it, without salting it with cold looks
and harsh constructions."
"Very true, my daughter," said the prioress; and she sighed. Poor lady,
she was no doubt thinking how soon she might have to eat that salt and
bitter bread herself.
"And so, madam, by your leave, I have come to ask the old lady to spend
the rest of her days under my roof, and she shall be as welcome as
flowers in May, and so shall you yourself, madam, if you would honor
me so far. I have a fine upper chamber, where you can be as secluded
as you will, until you can make some arrangement more suited to your
quality. Alas, madam, what have I done?"
For our poor mother, who had not been seen to shed a tear in all our
troubles, now burst into a passion of weeping such as I hardly ever
saw, and all the more startling in one usually so calm.
"You have done nothing but what is good and right," I whispered, mine
own eyes overflowing. "The dear mother will be better for this relief."
Sister Regina who, ever since the morning, had followed the prioress
round like a little dog which has displeased his master and wishes to
make amends, darted away, and in a minute returned with a glass of fair
water and a smelling bottle. The prioress took the water and thanked
her; whereat Regina burst out blubbering like a great schoolboy, and
retired into a corner to sob and sniff at her ease.
"'Were there not ten cleansed, but where are the nine?'" said our
mother, recovering herself, and smiling sadly. "'There are not found
that returned again to give God praise, save this stranger.' I shall
most certainly advise Sister Elizabeth to accept your hospitality. As
for myself, I am provided for, since my brother will gladly give me a
home, and also a shelter to this young lady till she can hear from her
friends. I will call the sister."
Sister Sacristine had shut herself in her cell, after giving up her
keys, and the prioress went herself to seek her, followed as before by
Sister Regina. When she had departed, Dame Lee drew near to me, and
said, in an awe-struck whisper:
"Mistress, does the lady profess the new religion?"
"No—at least I suppose not," I answered, surprised; "why should you
think so?"
"Because she repeated those words. They are from the English Bible."
I remembered, all at once, the great Bible which had been sent down for
the church, and which had been removed, as the prioress had said, to
a place of safety. Was it possible she could have been reading it all
this time? But this was no time to discuss so dangerous a subject, and
besides, I wanted to talk of something else. There was that in Hester
Lee's tone and accent which were strangely familiar—something which
took me back to very early days, before I went to Peckham Hall.
"What part of the country did you come from, dame?" I asked.
"Me, my lamb, I be from Devon—up Clovelly way—I be, and so was my
father, rest his soul. Ees, I be from Devon."
"And so am I," I answered, feeling somehow as if I had found a friend,
"though 'tis many a long year since I saw the place. My father owned
Watcombe Farm."
Dame Hester knew the farm, and was delighted to meet a countrywoman. In
the midst of our colloquy, the prioress returned, followed by Sister
Sacristine in the secular dress which had been provided for each of us,
and very funny she looked in it. She carried a bundle in her hand.
"Yes, I will go with you, Hester, since you are so good as to ask me,"
said she. "You were always a towardly child, and learned to do white
seam quicker than any girl I ever saw. Yes, I will go, and as soon as
you please; for I can't endure to see the way they are stripping the
church."
"We had best make our way home at once," said Dame Hester. "I have an
easy, sure-footed donkey at the gate for the lady. And you, madam—"
"I thank you, Dame Hester, but I must stay till all is over," said the
prioress. "You are a sailor's wife," (she had told us as much), "and
you know that the captain should be the last in the sinking ship."
"And that is true, madam, and what my husband always says. Well, then,
we will bid farewell. Come, good mother, we will soon have you in
safety."
They went away, and I never saw the sister again. She did not live
very long, but passed her days in great peace under the roof of Jonas
and Hester Lee, who tended her like an honored parent, though they had
plenty of scoffs and fault-findings from Hester's kindred, who had
their eyes on the savings of the childless couple.
As I was about to leave the room, the prioress detained me, sending
Regina on some errand to the further end of the house. I was glad of
that, for I was still very bitter against her, and believed her close
attendance on the reverend mother to be that of a spy, in which belief
I now think I did her injustice. She was simply one of those weak fools
who are ready to be led by any one that will take the trouble—unless
it be some one who has the right to govern them, and then they can be
obstinate enough.
"Loveday, I have something here which belongs to you," said she. As she
spoke, she produced a packet of some size from her pocket, and with a
great throb, I recognized my uncle's handwriting on the outside.
"These are letters from your uncle and his family, which have come from
time to time for the last six or seven years," said she. "There is no
reason now why you should not have them."
"And why did I not have them before?" was the hot question which rose
to my lips. The habit of discipline was strong within me, and I did not
ask it; but the prioress answered as if I had spoken.
"Why were they not given to you? Because it was not thought best. It
was the desire of my Lady Peckham, who was your legal guardian, that
you should make this house your home, and be professed here. We saw
that every letter you had from your uncle's family disturbed your mind
and made you homesick," (that was true enough), "and therefore we
thought it best to break off all such intercourse. My child, I see that
you are thinking this very hard, but you must remember that any parent
would have exercised the same right over a daughter's letters. Were it
to do again, I might act differently. I see many things in a different
light from what I did when you first came here. Here are your letters.
You may learn from them something about the present state of your
uncle's family, though I think the last is two years old."
I need not say how eagerly I received the letters, and how I devoured
them. They were written at different times, and all contained
assurances of undying regard from my uncle and aunt, with complaints of
my silence. The latest was from my uncle, and had been written from a
town in Holland, whither the family had removed. My uncle seemed to be
in a lively vein, for he recalled various incidents of my stay in the
family; at the close, were these words:
"Do you remember the odd experiments I once showed you with chemicals,
whereby Sambo was so scared? You know there was one in invisible ink,
which the good fellow thought was witchcraft."
A sudden notion flashed across me, which made me gather up all my
precious papers, and hasten to the kitchen. A great fire was burning in
the fireplace, and the room was empty, for dinner had long been over.
Quickly, I held the last dated letter to the hot coals, and as I had
half expected, I saw lines of brown writing appear between the black. I
read as follows:
"I have sure intelligence that within a year or two at furthest, the
religious houses in England will be forced to surrender. Should such a
thing happen, do you make your way to London, to the house where I used
to live. Master John Davis and his wife will care for you, and put you
in the way of hearing from or coming to me. My Lady Peckham being now
dead, there will be no one to interfere with you."
How welcome were these lines! I had been wondering what would become of
me, and here was a home provided, if I could but make shift to reach
it, and that I was determined to do if I had to beg my way. I had just
come to this resolution when I heard a step approaching, and hastened
to hide my treasure in my bosom. I was both angry and alarmed, for
the new comer was Mr. Lethbridge, for whom I had conceived a violent
aversion. I would have passed from the room, but he barred the way
whichever way I turned.
"Not so fast, not so fast, fair mistress!" said he. "Let me be your
confessor, and tell me what you are doing here amid the pots and pans,
and whether you are not glad in your heart to escape from this cage,
and spread your wings?"
I deigned no answer to the question, but possessed myself of the tongs,
as if I would arrange the fire.
"What! Will you threaten me with the tongs, like a second St. Dunstan?
Nay, then I may fairly meet force with force."
He came forward and put out his hand, as if to lay hold on me, and,
blind with fear and anger, I struck at him with the hot tongs. He
recoiled from the blow and stumbled against a dresser, on which Sister
Rosina, from mere force of habit, I suppose, had set a great earthen
pot of soup, which she had prepared beforehand for the morrow's
dinner. Down came the pot, and souse went the greasy liquid over my
master's fine clothes and into his hair and eyes. It had been off the
fire too long, certainly, to scald, but it was hot enough to be very
uncomfortable, and another hasty motion sent the dresser itself, with
all its trenchers and pipkins, after the soup. Sister Regina was always
saying that dresser would come down some day, and certainly, it took
a good opportunity of fulfilling its destiny. While its victim was
cursing and swearing and roaring for help, I escaped from the nearest
door and ran up a winding stair and through rooms and galleries where I
had never been before, to the prioress's own room, bursting in upon her
in the most unmannerly fashion.
"Loveday, is this you? Where do you come from, and what ails you?"
asked the lady in some displeasure. I mustered my breath as well as
I could, and told her what had happened, whereat she laughed—almost
the only time I ever saw her do so, though her smiles were frequent
enough—I also showed her my uncle's letter, not seeing any harm in so
doing, as things were at that time.
"Ay, every one foresees the evil save the one whom it most concerns,"
said she. "Do you know aught of this Master Davis, save what your uncle
says?"
"I have often seen him when I lived in London, reverend mother. He and
his son were great friends of mine uncle's. He was well-to-do at that
time and in a large way of business, and a learned man—or so I have
heard mine uncle say."
"And what say you? Do you incline to go to him?"
I told her frankly, that I did, since mine uncle, who was my nearest
relation, and therefore my natural guardian, desired me to do so.
"It is well," said the lady. "If I were going to a house of my own,
Loveday, I would ask you to go with me, and be as a daughter to me. But
my brother hath a large family, and I shall be but a dependent myself.
I had made up my mind to keep you for a time at any rate, but perhaps
it is as well. Ah, my poor child, we who thought to die in our nest,
must now learn the truth of what the Italian poet saith:"
"'How hard he fares
Who goeth up and down another's stairs.'"
"But we must have patience. 'For here we have no continuing city'—well
for us if we can add—'but we seek one to come—if, indeed, we look for a
city which hath foundations whose builder and maker is God.'"
How I longed to ask her if these words were from the Evangel. But even
had I dared to put such a question to her, there was no time, for the
portress came in haste to say that a stranger in the parlor desired to
speak with the lady, and with Mistress Loveday Corbet, if it might be
allowed.
"Fine doings, indeed, if strange men are to come to our house and ask
to see a postulant, and that not even on a visiting day," grumbled the
poor old woman. "Fine doings, indeed!"
"You forget, my poor sister, that we have no longer a house," said the
prioress, sadly. "Did the gentleman give his name?"
"That he did, reverend mother," answered the portress. "No man comes
into this house without giving his name while I am portress, though I
died the next minute. But this seems a worthy man and civil—a merchant
of London, I should say, as mine own honored father was, and he was an
iron-monger in East Cheap."
"All this time you are not giving me the gentleman's name," said the
prioress, while I was burning with impatience I dared not show.
"I did not say a gentleman, reverend mother, but a merchant, which he
says his name is John Davis," answered the portress, coming at last to
the matter in hand. My heart sank for a moment, for I thought it might
be mine uncle, but it rose again as I considered that Master Davis had
probably heard of what had befallen us and had come to seek for me.
So it proved. John Davis looked just as I remembered him, only older.
He was a grave and reverend man, with silver hair and beard, a polished
demeanor, and more of the scholar in his aspect than one would have
expected of a silk mercer. But Master Davis had dealt in far other
wares than silks and damask in his day, and had made his profit of them
as well.
He greeted the lady with as deep a reverence as though she had still
been at the head of one of the best houses in the country—perhaps a
little deeper—and proceeded to open his business. He had heard, he
said, of the misfortune which had befallen the house, in common with
many others, and he had come to find the niece of his old friend and
take her to his own home. Then turning his cap in his hand, with some
appearance of embarrassment, he adverted to another matter. Heaven had
blessed him, he said, with abundant wealth. He should esteem it a favor
if the lady would accept a small sum at his hands to help those of the
family who were without means or friends.
"You are very kind, sir," said the prioress. "You do not then think
that all convents are the sinks of iniquity that they have been
represented of late."
"No, madam; I believe they are like all human institutions, both good
and bad being mixed up in them."
"But you think, perhaps, they are as well out of the way."
"Madam, you push me to the wall," said the old man, raising his head
and regarding her with his clear, steadfast blue eyes. "Since I
must declare what I think, I must needs say that what is called the
religious life, hath no warrant in Holy Scripture. We find injunctions
many, addressed to fathers and mothers, parents and children, husbands
and wives, and even to masters and servants, but none to monks and
nuns; a strange omission, methinks, if they were expected to form such
a great and important part of the church. I will not say that there
hath not been good come out of these institutions in times past, but
the state of life doth seem to me to be unnatural, and, considering
the depravity of the human heart, likely to foster as much evil as
good. Nevertheless, I would have more charity and less haste used in
the doing away with them, and with all my heart do I pity those poor
ladies, who, having no home, are turned out of their only shelter, and
would gladly help them so far as it is in my power. I crave pardon,
madam, if I offend in my speech. I am but a plain man, and since you
would have my mind, I must needs speak plainly."
"You give no offense, sir," answered the lady; and the same odd little
half-smile hovered about her lips that I had seen once or twice before.
"So you are a reader of the Evangel?"
"Ay, madam, the king's grace now permits persons of my degree to read
it openly."
"And is it your will, Loveday, to go with this worthy man?"
"Yes, reverend mother, since mine uncle commands it," said I, marveling
at the question; for when Master Davis spoke so plainly, and, above
all, when he owned to reading the Bible, I had expected nothing less
than a direct prohibition.
"I believe you choose wisely," said the reverend mother. "What means
have you of carrying her, Master Davis?"
"I have brought a palfrey for her riding, madam, and I thought if any
of the ladies wished to come up to London, they might do so under my
escort and that of my servants."
"I will inquire about that. Meantime, my daughter, go and make your
preparations."
My few worldly goods were soon gathered together—very few they
were—Mistress Davis had been thoughtful enough to send me a riding
dress and mask, such as were worn by people of her quality, and I was
ready to take leave of the house where I had lived so long, and where
I had thought to spend the rest of my days. The dear mothers gave me
their blessing and farewells, and in a moment, I was outside the gate.
I have never seen the place again.
The king kept it in his own hands for a time, and, I believe, sojourned
there more than once. After that, in King Edward's reign, it was the
home of Lady Anne of Cleves, the King's divorced wife and adopted
sister. Afterward, Queen Mary granted it to some preaching friars, who
began a work of restoration which they had no time to finish. Now it
belongs to our good queen.
To make an end here of the subject of nunneries—while I think great
greed, injustice, falsehood, and cruelty wore exercised in their
abolition—I must needs say the land is well rid of them. The secrecy,
and the absolute rule, gave opportunity to the exercise of much
oppression and cruelty on the part of their rulers, and the victims had
no redress. They were made use of, as I have said, by people who wished
to get rid of inconvenient relations, and so many persons thus entered,
who had no religious sentiment to sustain them, great disorders were
likely to prevail (and often did) among companies of young persons with
no natural outlet for the passions and affections which God himself
hath implanted in our bosoms. Their promiscuous almsgiving did more
harm than good, especially with the cloistered orders, who had no means
of judging who were worthy and who were mere idle beggars.
Nevertheless, I will always maintain that the work of suppressing them
was prompted far more by greed of gain than by any principle of right,
and that it was carried on in many cases with great oppression and
cruelty, as I have said. However, the king was not, after all, nearly
so bad as Cardinal Wolsey, who began the work with the full consent of
the pope himself. The king did grant pensions to the older men, and in
some cases to the women; which pensions have been paid with tolerable
regularity. * (Father Austin receives his, but what he does with it,
I cannot say, since he can hardly spend it all in sweets for the
children.)
* The last of these pensioners died in the fifth year of James
First. See Fuller, for a good account of the matter.
But the cardinal made no provision whatever for those he turned out.
Many of the younger nuns married, after a while. (The king changed
his mind so often about that matter, that it was hard to know what
he would or would not have.) Others took service in families, like
Sister Regina, who got a chambermaid's place with my Lady Denny, and, I
believe, filled it fairly well for a fool. Some, but I think not many,
went wholly to the bad; like Sister Perpetua, who, to be sure, had not
far to go.
Our honored mother went to her brother's house, and he losing his wife
soon after, she staid to govern his household, and brought up a large
family of children who honored her as a mother. Mother Joanna went also
to her own home, but she did not live long. Of the rest of the family,
I know nothing, save of old Adam, the gardener, who kept his place
through all the changes, and died, nearly a hundred years old, in the
reign of our present queen.
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