OLD FRIENDS AND NEW.
SO here I was once more thrown upon the world and going over the road I
never thought to retrace again.
It was a beautiful spring day, with flowers abloom and birds singing
in every direction. As we paused on the top of a rise of ground and I
looked back, I remembered all of a sudden that it was from this very
place that I had first caught sight of Dartford priory. Now I was
leaving it behind me forever. I turned and looked at it. Nothing was
changed outwardly. The commissioners had ordered the place cleared,
and no one was to be seen moving save old Adam, who seemed to be going
about his work as if nothing had happened. I believe the old man would
have tied up his vines and hoed his vegetables to the very last minute,
if he had known that the day of doom would come in an hour's time.
For a few minutes, I could not forbear weeping at the thought of
leaving those with whom I had lived so long. I had dearly loved most of
the elders of the family, though I had never formed any great intimacy
with those near my own age and standing. Grievously as I had disliked
the idea of going to the house as a child, I had, upon the whole, been
happy there. I had no deep religious feelings or principles at that
time, and I had never dreamed of doubting what had been taught me. I
had a great desire, indeed, to read the Scriptures for myself, but it
was only the curiosity which one has to see a famous book that one has
heard about. I suppose the feeling that there was a kind of mystery
about the matter might have had its effect in increasing that desire.
Every one was kind to me. I had as few childish troubles and suffered
as few corrections as fall to the lot of most children. I loved music
and I loved learning languages, and opportunity had been given me to
indulge both these tastes. Yes, upon the whole, I had been happy at
Dartford.
"We must not linger long, Mistress Corbet, if we would be at home
before night!" said John Davis, gently. "I blame not your regrets,
but I trust you have yet much happiness and usefulness before you. I
believe you may hope to serve God as well in the world as in yonder
walls."
I could not but blush as I remembered that the thought of such service
in one place or the other had not so much as crossed my mind.
We put our horses in motion, and all at once my heart gave a great
bound of exultation. I was free once more—out in the world, with no
walls to confine my footsteps and shut in my view. The very sight of
the wide green fields and pastures, seemed to lift a load from my eyes
and spirits, of which I had all the time been dimly conscious. I looked
with interest at every hall and cottage, at every woman whom I saw
gathering of greens for her pot, or nursing her babe at her door, and
I would have liked to make one in every group of gossips that I saw
collected round a well or at a street corner.
But long before night, my interest gave way to utter weariness, and I
could think of nothing but when we should reach home. I had not been on
horseback for many years, and a ride of fifteen miles was almost too
much for me, strong as I was. We entered London at last, and reached my
uncle's old house about sunset.
"Welcome, Mistress Corbet," said Master Davis, as he lifted me from my
horse. "Welcome to your old home. Mistress Davis will strive to make it
as homelike as the house you have left."
Mistress Davis herself, having heard of our arrival, came forward and
met me with a motherly kiss as I entered the hall where I had come,
a tired, homesick child, eight years or more before. As I entered
the parlor and saw the old furniture in the old accustomed places, a
curious feeling of unreality came over me, as though my convent life
had been all a dream; and I more than half expected to see mine uncle
seated in his own window and my aunt in hers, the one reading in his
great book, the other darning of hosiery, or working at the white seam,
in which she excelled. But the dream was quickly dispelled by the voice
of Mistress Davis:
"Dear heart, and so you have come all the way from Dartford since
eleven o'clock. How weary you must be. You shall have your supper
directly, and go to your bed, and to-morrow you will be as fresh as a
daisy. But you will like to wash before supper. My dear, I have such a
poor head; I cannot recall your name!"
"Loveday Corbet, reverend mother—I mean madam," I replied, confused at
my mistake.
"Yes, yes, I remember," said Mistress Davis. "Philippa, will you show
Mistress Loveday her room; and when you are ready, sweet chick, come
down to the dining-room; I dare say you know the way."
"Yes, madam," I answered. "If you will kindly tell me which room I am
to have, I will find it without troubling Mrs. Philippa."
"Oh, I am sure it is no trouble. The front room on the third floor—that
hung with the apostles, if you remember."
"Oh yes, madam, it is my old room."
"Let me carry your bundle," said she whom Mistress Davis had called
Philippa, coming forward and taking it from my hand. We passed up the
familiar stair—so familiar, yet so strange—and entered the very room
from which I had witnessed Sambo's recovery of the stolen flowers. It
was hardly altered at all, save that the floor was strewn with rushes,
a practice which my uncle had discarded. The very nosegay of flowers
on the mantle might have been the same, only that they were spring,
instead of autumn, posies. A pretty gown and petticoat of dark blue,
with a linen hood, and other things belonging to a young lady's dress,
were neatly laid out on the bed.
"My aunt hath provided you with a complete change of raiment, you see!"
said Mrs. Philippa, with a kind of bitterness in her tone which I did
not then understand.
"She is very kind, indeed, to think of it," said I, and, indeed, I did
feel it to be a motherly and kind act, which made my heart warm toward
the good woman.
"Oh, very!" answered Philippa, in the same odd tone. "I will leave you
to dress and then, perhaps, you can find your way down by yourself, as
you know the house so well."
"Certainly," I answered, feeling a little confused and vexed, as well
by something in her manner and the sharp scrutiny of her cold gray eyes.
Not to keep my hostess waiting longer than was needful, I simply
slipped off the riding gear which I had put on over my gray novice's
gown, made myself as neat as I could at short notice, and went down as
I had been bidden, to the dining-room, where I found the family already
assembled—there being more children than I could reckon at one glance,
all healthy and happy-looking, except Philippa. We took our places at
the board, the youngest child present said a simple grace, and we all
sat down. The meal was a plain one and plainly served, but all was good
and abundant.
"You see all our flock at once, Mrs. Loveday," said Master Davis, "all,
that is, but my married son and daughter, who have homes of their own."
"These young ones should have been abed, I suppose," chimed in Mistress
Davis, "but they begged to sit up till their father came, and I could
not refuse them for once, poor hearts. Folks say I spoil my children
sadly," she added, whereat Philippa gave a scornful half-smile; "but
they are pretty good children, though I say it that shouldn't!"
"I am sure they do not look spoiled," said I, seeing that I was
expected to speak; and, indeed, they did not. A prettier, better
ordered family of children I never saw. The supper was good, as I said,
though plain, but I was too weary to eat, seeing which, Mistress Davis
hastened the meal a little. When all had finished, she blew a little
whistle and made a sign to the elder boy, who brought a great book
from the side table and laid it before his father, while three or four
servants and as many 'prentice lads entered and sat down at the lower
end of the room.
"It is my custom, Mrs. Loveday, to read a chapter in the Holy
Scriptures to my family night and morning," said John Davis, removing
his cap as he spoke, "but if you have any scruples of conscience
concerning the same, you have leave to withdraw."
Philippa instantly rose, crossed herself and looked at me as if
expecting me to do the same. But as I had no such scruple, and had
moreover a great curiosity about the matter, I sat still, whereat she
went away, shutting the door with something like a slam.
The chapter Master Davis read was that one from the Old Testament
Scriptures concerning the beautiful story of the Shunamite woman and
her child. He then turned over and read about the widow's son of Nain,
whom our Lord brought again from the dead. The reading finished, the
whole family joined in the Paternoster, and Master Davis added a short
prayer in English, asking for protection through the hours of darkness.
The children and the 'prentices (there were but two, both quite little
lads) then kissed his hand and received his blessing, and so all parted
for the night. I cannot make any one understand how sweet and affecting
was this picture of family life to me who had not seen it for so long.
Mistress Davis herself was so kind as to see me to my room. When there,
she closed the door and addressed herself to me in that same pretty,
motherly way, yet not without a dash of dignity, which had made me love
her at first sight.
"Mrs. Loveday, my dear, I have, as you see, provided you with apparel
suitable to your degree, and unless you make it a matter of conscience
(with which I will by no means interfere), I should be glad to have you
don it to-morrow."
I told her what was quite true, that I had no objection, and that
I would have changed my dress at once but for fear of keeping her
waiting. I added that the reverend prioress had counseled me to be
commanded and guided by her in all things.
"Why, that is well," said Mistress Davis, so evidently pleased by
my ready compliance that I fancy she had expected something quite
different. "You see, sweet chick, a conventual dress out of convent
walls doth draw on remark, which is not pleasant or convenient for a
young lady."
"I can see that, madam!" said I. "I will put on the pretty gown you
have been so kind as to provide me in the morning. But, madam, is every
one now permitted to have the Scripture and read it?"
"Why, no, not every one," she answered. "Only those above a certain
degree; but we hope the time may come when it will be free to all.
It is a blessed gift, used as it should be, able to make wise unto
salvation. Well, good-night, and God bless thee."
She kissed my cheek, as she spoke, and I kissed her hand. Then, quickly
undressing and saying my prayers, I lay down, and, despite the novelty
of the soft feather bed and fine sheets, smelling of lavender, I was
soon asleep. I started several times in the night at some noise in the
street, but, on the whole, I slept well, and awoke refreshed, but at
first greatly bewildered at the place in which I found myself and the
novelty of the street-cries outside which fell on my ear, so long used
to hear nothing on waking but the song of the early birds.
I had often dreamed of waking in this very room, and now the reality
seemed like a dream. At last I roused myself thoroughly, as I heard the
house astir. I must needs confess, that it was with no small pleasure
that I hung up my gray flannel robe, and arrayed myself in the clean
body-linen, blue gown, and laced-hood and partlet; nor was it without
a sensation of gratified vanity, that I looked in the glass, and saw
that the image reflected there was a reasonably fair one. Considering
that I had not seen my own visage for so many years, I might be excused
for lingering before it a little. I was at this time about eighteen, a
well-grown, healthy-looking black * maid; with a dark clear skin, which
showed every change of color; coal black brows, and dark eyes with long
lashes, and very thick black hair, crisped to the roots and always
wanting to stray into rebellious little curls about my brow and neck.
Walter used say my hair was never meant for a nun's coif and veil. I
don't think I was vainer than other maids, but it is natural to young
things to wish to look well, and, certainly, I was no exception to the
rule.
* A black person then, and long after, only meant one with black
hair.
I said my prayers, and put my bed to rights, and then began looking
about the room. All was very much as I had left it; so much so that I
half expected, on opening the garderobe, to find Katherine's kirtle
fallen from its nail, and Avice's hanging primly in its place. A little
door, which I did not remember, opened into a light closet, where was a
small table, a chair and hassock, and a couple of books. I took up the
larger volume, and was both delighted and surprised to find it a copy
of the New Testament. I opened into the Gospel of St. John, but had no
time to read more than a few words before a knock came to the door of
my bedroom. I opened it, and there stood Philippa.
"My aunt has sent me to call you," she began, and then, with a curious
change of tone: "So you have left off your gown and veil already. Well,
it must be confessed, you have lost no time."
"I have but done as Mistress Davis requested," said I, feeling my cheek
flame at the tone of supercilious reproof.
"Oh, you are very obedient, no doubt. I should suppose that you owed
as much obedience to your religious vows as to—however, that kind of
obedience is out of fashion now-a-days."
"I have never taken any vows, Mrs. Philippa," I answered. "And the
reverend mother bade me be guided by Mistress Davis in all things. I
suppose she knows what is proper for young maids, as we are, better
than we can ourselves."
"Oh, very well; I did not come to quarrel with you, but to call you to
breakfast."
She turned round and I followed her, feeling discomposed and
uncomfortable. Mistress Davis's motherly kiss and welcome, however,
soon restored me.
"Why, this is well," said she, leading me to her husband, who entered
the hall followed by a younger man, also in the grave, rich dress of a
well-to-do merchant.
Master Davis greeted me with a kindly smile and blessing, and presented
me to his son; who, it seemed, had come to take breakfast with his
parents. I liked him as well as the other members of the family whom
I had seen, and was particularly pleased with his deference to his
mother. The older lads had already gone to school, but a little boy and
two pretty little girls sat down with us, and I learned, accidentally,
that the breakfast-hour had been deferred out of consideration for me,
as I was supposed to be tired with my ride. But, indeed, breakfast,
which is coming in many families to be as regular a meal as dinner and
supper, was little thought of in those days. The children took a piece
of bread and a draught of milk in their hands, and their elders were
content with a manchet and a cup of small ale, or mead. I hear that
people in London now have some trouble in getting good milk, but there
was abundance of milk-kine kept in the city boundaries in my time.
When I had drunk my basin of milk and eaten, I know not what dainty
cake wherewith Mistress Davis provided me, Master Davis called me into
the parlor, saying he wished to have some talk with me.
"So, Mistress Loveday, I dare say you are impatient to hear somewhat of
your uncle's family," said he kindly. "I have borrowed an hour or so
from business to talk of your affairs. Please you, be seated."
I courtesied, and took the chair he set for me.
"You will naturally wish to hear first of my good friend, your uncle's
affairs," said he, placing himself in the great chair where mine
uncle used to sit. "I wish, from my heart, I could give you later
and better news of him. The last letter I had from him was written,
almost two years ago, from Antwerp. In it, after praying me to have
a care of yourself and your fortunes, he gave me to wit, that having
trusted too far a factor whom he employed, and having lost largely by
him, he was about removing to some town in Holland, where he hath had
correspondence, and where he hoped to retrieve his fortunes. He was
somewhat undecided where to settle, but said he would write me when he
had, as he said, pitched his tent once more. Since then, I have not
heard from him."
Here was a fine downfall of all the airy castles I had been building
ever since I read mine uncle's last letter. I bit my lip, and had much
ado not to burst out weeping.
"Be not too much cast down, dear maid," resumed Master Davis, marking
my emotion. "I hope all will yet prosper with your uncle, and that
you will be able to join him. I have written again by a sure hand to
a mutual friend in Antwerp, and, besides, any day may bring a letter
from your kinsman. Meantime, rest assured that you are most welcome
to a daughter's place in this house. My good wife's heart is large
enough to hold a dozen more like you, besides our own brood, and all
our grandchildren; and my own, believe me, is not less spacious. Is
not that true, dame?" he added, appealing to his wife, who had just
entered. "Can not your wings spread wide enough to brood another chick?"
"Yes, indeed; half a dozen, if they will but be peaceable and not peck
one another," answered the good mistress, whose smooth brow seemed a
little ruffled, I thought. "I am sure if Mistress Corbet does but turn
out half as towardly as she seems, it will be a pleasure to have her
in the house. But we must take some order for her clothes. Canst sew,
sweet heart?"
"Oh, yes, madam; I can both sew and knit," I answered.
"That is more than I can—the knitting, I mean," said Mistress Davis.
"My sister, who is a waiting gentlewoman to the Duchess of Suffolk,
says her lady knows the art, but I have never even seen it. Then, I
dare say, you will not mind making your own linen."
"Oh, no, madam; indeed, I shall like it, only—"
"Well, only what, chick?"
"Only I have none to make," said I, with the outspoken bluntness
natural to me, and which I had never unlearned, even in the convent. "I
have no money to buy any, either, and it seems hard that you, madam,
should provide it for me, when you have such a flock of your own."
"Care not for that, sweet heart," said Master Davis. "Heaven hath,
as you say, given us a flock, but it hath also given us abundance
wherewith to maintain it."
"And I dare say, you will be able to give me help about the ordering
of the household and the children," added his wife, with that quick
consideration which distinguished her.
"I should like that," said I. "I might teach the children music, if you
would. I can play both upon the lute and the little and great organ,
and I can read both French and Latin."
"So much the better for you. 'Learning is light luggage,' my gaffer
used to say. The children go to school at present, but I shall find a
way to make you useful, never fear. Do you come with me now, and we
will see what is most needed."
I followed her to my own room, where I found a piece of fine Hollands
and some stuffs for dresses, with a piece of rich sober silk, laid out
on my bed.
"You see, chick, you, being a gentlewoman born, may wear silk, and even
velvet, which we merchants' wives must be content to forego," said
Mistress Davis, smiling.
"But indeed, Mistress Davis, I would rather not wear silk. I would far
rather dress as you do," said I, earnestly. "Silk attire is surely not
for one like me, who hath nothing she may call her own. Please do not
ask me to wear silk."
"Well, well, it shall be as you please. But, dear love, do not let the
thought of dependence worry you. Above all, let it not embitter you.
Remember, we poor creatures are all dependent on each other, first, and
last upon our Heavenly Father, who giveth to all his dear children what
He sees best for them in particular. Now let me take your measure, and
then, when we have some sewing ready, you shall bring your work down to
the parlor, if you will."
Mistress Davis's deft hands soon had some shifts ready for the needle.
I had brought my working things from the convent, and I soon found
myself in the very low chair in the bow-window, which had been mine so
long ago. But alas, my dear aunt was no longer in her old place, which
was filled by the much less substantial form of Mistress Davis, while
Philippa's somber face and figure was but a poor representative of the
beautiful twins, my cousins.
I glanced at Philippa, now and again, as I pursued my work, and
answered Mistress Davis's questions about my life in Dartford. She was
a tall, well-made girl, and would have been handsome but for her formal
manners, and the cold, and what I may call the arrogant expression
of her large gray blue eyes, that looked as if she were taking ever
one's measure and comparing it with some standard of her own. She was
dressed in black, made as nearly as might be in conventual fashion, and
wore conspicuously at her side a long rosary with a crucifix attached.
Mistress Davis expressed a most kindly interest in our poor sisters,
and hoped they had homes wherein to bestow themselves. I told her that
I knew some of them had, and mentioned the prioress and Mother Joanna.
"And yet the change will be very great for them," said she. "Poor
things, one cannot but pity them."
Philippa raised her head as if to speak, but at that moment Mistress
Davis was called out of the room, and she addressed herself to me.
"You seem to take the change easily enough, and even to enjoy it," said
she.
"Well, I do," I answered, frankly. "Of course, I was sorry to leave my
old friends, especially as they were in so much trouble, but a convent
life was never my choice for myself nor mine uncle's for me."
"You had no real vocation, then?"
"No, I think not; and indeed, I hardly know what it means," I answered.
"I had!" said Philippa, proudly. "I have always had a vocation, ever
since I was a child, but my father never would consent, or Master Davis
either. I have money enough, however, and when I am twenty-two it
will be all mine own. Then I can do as I like, and I shall go into a
religious house directly."
"From the way things are going there are not like to be many religious
houses by that time," said I.
"There will be convents enough abroad if not here," said Philippa.
"Besides, things may change here."
"That is true," said I; "but from what I have seen I should think that
one might be very happy in this house."
"Happiness is not my object!" answered Philippa. "What I seek is a life
of self-denial."
"And so you mean to take your own way the moment it is in your power!"
I thought, but I did not say it.
At that moment, Mistress Davis returned to the room, bringing with her
a pretty, pleasant-looking lady whom she presented to me as her married
daughter, Mistress Margaret Hall, come to spend the day at home. I took
a fancy to her directly, and we were soon chatting pleasantly together.
She had some lace work in hand with which she had got into difficulty,
and I was able to set her right, having served my apprenticeship to
that kind of work under Mother Joanna. The convent schools did have
that advantage—they taught girls to use their fingers. Mistress Hall
looked over with great interest while I picked out and untwisted,
showing her where she had gone wrong.
"Many thanks, Mistress Loveday!" said she pleasantly, when I had
restored the frame to her. "You have plenty of finger wit, I see."
"More of finger wit than head wit, perhaps!" said Philippa, with that
kind of smile which says—"see how superior I am." "I believe they do
not often go together."
"I am not sure of that," I answered. "Sister Cicely, our organist, of
whom I learned music, was the most beautiful seamstress I ever saw, and
people came from far and near to hear her playing."
"Then you play the organ?" said Margaret, eagerly; and, as I assented,
she went on—"You must come and try my husband's. He bought it at one of
the convents which have been closed lately, and had it set up in our
house. You must come and play for us."
"I should be very glad to do so," I answered—
Whereat Philippa said, with emphasis:
"You are very much favored, Mistress Loveday. Cousin Margaret Hall
never asked me to play for her."
"I did not know that you played," said Margaret.
"No, and you never tried to find out. Oh, you need not excuse yourself.
For my part, I would not have such an instrument in my house—I should
expect it to bring a curse upon me."
"It is better in my parlor than broken up for the sake of the lead!"
said Margaret, rising. "Mistress Loveday, would you not like to go over
the house?"
I arose with alacrity. It was just what I had been longing to do.
Margaret did not ask Philippa to go with us, for which I was very glad.
We left her to her own meditations, and went first up to the attic
from which (the house being much higher than its neighbors) we had a
very nice view over the city. I looked at once for the little, old
almshouses where I was wont to go with my aunt and cousins, but I could
not find them at all.
"Where is the green field where the almshouses used to stand?" said I.
"I am sure we used to see it from here."
"There is still a bit of it left—yonder by that old tree!" answered
Mistress Hall. "You may also see two or three of the cottages, but no
one has been put there for a long time. My husband heard that the whole
ground was to be granted to some great man about the court!"
"What a shame!" said I.
Mistress Hall put her finger on her lip.
"Blame not the king—no, not in thy bed-chamber!" said she. "There are
more than you that think so, but no one dares speak as things are now,
and it behooves us specially to be careful, being always in danger of
an attaint of heresy."
"You are of the new religion then?" I ventured to say.
"Nay, we are of the old religion—as old as the Word of God himself,"
said she smiling sweetly. "My husband, like my father, reads the Holy
Scripture in his family every day. I suppose, dear maiden, it is new to
you."
I told her I had never seen more of it than I had read in mine uncle's
great book as a child, adding that I had been taught to think it was
at the peril of salvation that common, unlearned folk meddled with the
word of Scripture, which was the reason that it was kept in the Latin.
"The multitudes who followed our Lord on earth and listened to his
blessed words, and the thousands who heard the discourses of Saint
Peter and the other apostles, were doubtless most of them unlearned
men. Yet our Lord and the apostles spoke to them in what was then the
vulgar tongue!" said Mistress Hall, gently. "Did they then put these
poor souls in peril of their salvation? And for what was the wonderful
gift of tongues bestowed upon the apostles, save that the common people
where they traveled might hear, each in the tongue wherein he was born,
the wonderful works of God?"
"I never thought of that!" said I. "And to tell you truth, Mistress
Hall, I never thought much about it."
"But you will think, dear maiden!" said she, with a sweet eagerness.
"You will read and think, and ask for aid and light from above to
understand."
I had no time to make any promise, for at that moment one of the maids
came to find us, with a message from Mistress Davis, that dinner would
soon be ready. Mistress Hall thanked her, and asked after her mother.
"It seems to me that I have seen you before," said I, as the maid
answered that her mother was well.
Cicely blushed and answered modestly that she remembered me quite well,
adding:
"But you were a very young lady then. Do you remember the night that
you came with your uncle to Goodman's farm, and the kind gentleman gave
Dame Goodman a piece of silver and bade her fill my pitcher?"
"Oh yes; you are little Cicely Higgins," said I. "You went with your
mother to live with John Blunt and his wife at the almshouse. What has
become of them?"
"They are both dead," answered the maid, quietly. Then making a
courtesy, she went away.
"That is a nice girl; I am glad she has so good a home," said I.
"Yes; any one who lives with my step-dame has a good home," answered
Mistress Hall. "I would all knew it as well as poor little Cicely.
Tell me, Mistress Loveday, do you think my husband guilty of sacrilege
because he bought a convent organ to save it from the fire and the
melting-pot?"
"Not in the least," I answered. "I only wish he had that one I used to
play on at Dartford."
"Sometimes I wish Philippa could have her way and go into a convent,"
said Mistress Hall. "Perhaps she would be more content."
"I think it would be an excellent thing," I answered. "A month or two
under Mother Joanna and a few times of bread and water, and being set
to scour the flags on her hands and knees, would teach her to keep her
tongue in better order."
"After all, that would be but an outward reformation," said Mistress
Hall, thoughtfully. "It skills not keeping silence when the heart is
full of anger and uncharitableness."
"Under your favor, I think it skills a good deal," I could not help
saying. "At least, one does not vex others, and besides, in mine own
case, when I am angry, I find the more I say, the angrier I grow."
"Perhaps you are right so far as that goes," answered Margaret; "but I
pray you have patience with poor Philippa. It is hard for her to have
her will so constantly crossed."
"She would have it crossed with a good crab-tree twig an she were a
pupil of our house in Dartford," said I, and there the matter ended for
the present.
When we went down to dinner, we found the party increased by Master
Hall, Margaret's husband, a tall, stout man, big enough to put his
delicate little wife in his pocket, and with a face beaming with
good-nature, which his manner did not belie.
The elder children took their dinner at the schools, which were at
some distance, but the little ones came to the table and it was clear
by their smiles and looks that their big brother-in-law was a welcome
guest. I was especially pleased by the respectful affection which both
Master and Mistress Hall showed to their step-dame; but, indeed, it
would be a hard heart that did not love Mistress Davis.
Of course, I did not speak before my elders at table, but I listened
with all my ears. I found out that Master Hall was a bookseller in
St. Paul's Churchyard, and had a license to print and sell Bibles.
I gathered that he was not as rich as his father-in-law, and indeed
Mistress Hall's dress was plain compared to that of her step-mother, or
even mine own, though it was most becomingly fancied and as neat and
fresh as a daisy. The talk was most interesting to me, running as it
did on the sale and use of books, especially Bibles.
"The demand increases more and more," said Master Hall. "We cannot work
our presses fast enough to supply it. But I bear some new restriction
is to be put upon the sale and use of the books."
"I am sorry for that," said his wife. "I would fain see the time when
every plowman and shepherd might have a Bible of his own."
"That time will surely come—or so I think," remarked her father,
"though perhaps not in our day. But these young ones may live to see
it."
"I fear, indeed, it will not be in our day," said Master Hall. "There
are those about His Majesty that would willingly close, if not burn,
every English Bible in the land."
"But not the Archbishop of Canterbury," said Master Davis.
"No; His Grace would, like my wife, put it into the hands of all,
gentle or simple."
The talk then drifted away to other matters, and when we rose from
table, Master Davis proposed we should seek the summer-house in the
garden.
"Do so, and I will send you wine and sweetmeats," said Mistress Davis.
"Then you can talk of your business matters, and we women will sit
under the great apple tree, sew our seams, and talk of affairs level
with our comprehension."
Whereat the men laughed, though I did not see the joke. Mistress Davis
asked me to help her in the ordering of the banquet, * and I was glad
to do so. (I never do feel thoroughly at home in any house till I get
into the pantry and kitchen.) Margaret was busy with the little girls,
and I saw them showing her their work, and the clothes they had been
making for their dolls.
* A banquet was what we should now call a dessert of fruits and
sweetmeats piled upon wooden trays and trimmed with flowers. It was
often set before callers.
"Yes, Joan and Nelly are quite happy now they can have Sister Margaret
all to themselves," said Dame Davis.
"You would never guess for as simple as she sits there, that Margaret
can read the New Testament in the Greek tongue, wherein it was written,
and correct the press for her husband's edition of Plato his Dialogues.
Now, would you?"
"I think I could believe any thing that was good of Mistress Hall,"
I answered warmly.
"And you may well and safely do so," said her step-mother. "Yes, that
is very pretty," as I handed her a dish of fruit I had arranged.
"Believe me, you cannot have a better or safer friend than Margaret.
With all her learning, she is simple as a child and defers to me as
though I were her own mother. There, I think that will do nicely. And
now we will take our own work and sit down under the tree, and you will
give us the pleasure of hearing you sing, will you not? I see you have
brought your lute with you."
I was only too glad to do aught which could please my kind hostess.
I do not know when I ever spent a pleasanter afternoon than that. I sang
all the songs I knew—which were not many—and then Margaret told us some
tales she had read, and by degrees, I know not how, she gently led us
to serious talk upon religion and kindred topics.
"Oh, how I do wish you knew our dear reverend mother, Mistress Hall!"
I could not help saying at last; whereat she smiled and said:
"Why, do you think we should agree?"
"Yes, indeed, you would," I answered. "You have made me think of her so
many times this afternoon."
At this Philippa, who had sat by stiff and silent, tossed up her chin
and said:
"She must be a strange lady prioress if she is like Margaret."
"How many lady prioresses did you ever know?" asked Mistress Davis.
"Philippa would say I am not like her notion of what a lady prioress
should be, I suppose!" said Margaret. "But tell us of this good friend
of yours, Mistress Loveday, if you will. I have always been curious
about convent life."
"I don't know where to begin," said I.
"Oh, begin at the beginning and tell us how you spent your day. What
was the first thing in the morning?"
So I began and told—as we say in the west country—for an hour. The
elder children were at home by this time, and they also gathered round
to hear. When I had finished—
"You seem to have led quiet, peaceful lives enow," observed Margaret;
"but I should think such an unvarying life would have been rather
wearisome, and that a person leading it on for years would be almost
childish. Did you never have any study?"
"I used to do my Latin lessons with poor Sister Denys, and afterward
with Father Austin," said I; "but we never read any thing but the
Imitation and some lives of saints. I began Cæsar's Commentaries when I
studied with Father Austin, but I never got on very far."
"You shall finish it with me if you will," said Margaret. "And we will
also have some poetry. Latin is a noble tongue."
"Yes, a tongue more fit for the Scriptures and the church service than
common English!" said Philippa.
"But Latin was also the vulgar tongue of the Romans, wasn't it, Sister
Margaret?" asked one of the boys. "That is the reason the Latin Bible
is called the Vulgate, so our master said. He said St. Jerome put it in
Latin that every one might read it."
"Yes, that is very likely," answered Philippa, contemptuously. "No
doubt he knows all about it. Latin is the sacred language of the
church, not like that profane Greek and Hebrew which was used only by
heathen and by wicked Jews."
"But the Scripture was written in Greek and Hebrew in the first place;
was it not, sister?" asked Amyas, eagerly. "I am sure the master said
so, and I suppose he is right. Do you think you know more than our
head-master, Cousin Philippa?"
"Gently, gently, little brother!" said Margaret. "Your master would
also tell you that one may be right in a wrong way. 'Do you think you
know more than so-and-so,' is not very good logic, neither is it very
good manners, especially when addressed to one older than yourself."
At this, the lad blushed and hung down his head, but presently raised
it and said frankly, "I beg your pardon, Cousin Philippa. But was it
not so, sister?"
"Yes, you are right, so far. The Old Testament was written in Hebrew,
as most, if not all, of the New Testament was in the Greek tongue.
Scholars are now beginning to give great attention to the Hebrew."
"Yes, my sister wrote me that His Grace of Suffolk gives some
chaplaincy or the like to a young man—a secular priest—who hath come
up from the west country expressly to study the Hebrew," said Mistress
Davis.
"I dare say that might be the same young priest who was in our shop
yesterday," observed Margaret. "He was a fair Grecian for one of his
years, and was asking for some one with whom to learn Hebrew."
"I wish I might learn Greek!" said Amyas.
"All in good time!" returned his mother. "And you, Hal?"
"Not I!" answered Hal, the younger boy. "I would rather be a sailor,
and sail away to the Indies, like Columbus, than to be poring over
little crooked letters, all dots and spots, like those you showed us
the other day, sister."
"Why that may be in good time, too," said Margaret. "Who knows what new
lands you may discover?"
"We shall all discover rheums and quacks, * if we sit here much
longer," said Mistress Davis. "Do you not perceive how the east wind
hath come up? Let us go into the house."
* "Colds in the head" as we call them, were rather new at that
time, and were called quacks, hence the term of quack doctors.
Old fashioned folks laid them to the introduction of chimneys.
We had several guests to supper. Young Master Davis and his wife,
a pretty, lively little body; two or three grave merchants, and an
elderly priest, with one of the finest faces I ever saw—full of
sweetness and gravity. I was presented to him, and learned that his
name was Hooper. The talk at table was cheerful and pleasant, at times
falling into a serious vein, and again full of jest and humor.
When the meal was done, the great Bible was again produced, but
this time Master Davis handed it to Dr. Hooper. He chose out the
twenty-third Psalm, and made an exposition thereon, so sweet and
tender, yet vigorous withal, as I think nothing could be better, unless
it were the very Word itself. I remember, he specially insisted on that
little word my.
"That is the way throughout Scripture," said he. "And so it must ever
be with those who are called into the kingdom. It is and must be my
Shepherd, my King, our Father, our Saviour. He may be what he is to all
the rest of the world, but till I can say He is mine, I am nothing the
better."
After he had finished speaking, he prayed—not in any form that I had
ever heard, but in his own words, and such a prayer I never heard.
It was as though his very eyes saw the one to whom he spoke with
the freedom of a loving and dutiful child. Then we all repeated the
Paternoster in English, and our guests went away, the ladies giving me
many kind and pressing invitations to visit them.
As I went to my room I met Philippa, who asked me if I had a book of
Hours, such us they used in the convent. I told her I had, whereat she
asked me to lend it to her—adding, with her usual bitterness:
"I suppose you will not care for it, now that you have taken up with
the new lights."
"I have not taken up with any new lights that I know of," I answered.
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, it is very easy to see. You are quite carried away with Mistress
Hall's sweet ways and flatteries, and she will make you as great a
heretic as herself. You must needs stay to hear that old apostate hold
forth, to-night. Oh, yes; it is easy to see which way the wind blows,
Mistress Loveday. But there is no use in saying a word in this house,
when even that malapert Amyas is put up to affront me, and Mistress
Davis, my aunt, finds fault if I do but put a stitch awry in my
mending. All I can do is to wait with what patience I can, till I can
go to the convent. There I shall find peace."
"I do not believe you will find it there, unless you take it thither
with you," said I. "And I can tell you more than that, Philippa. If you
had answered the reverend mother, or even one of the elder sisters,
as you did your aunt and Mistress Hall two or three times to-day, you
would have been made to kneel and kiss the ground, if, indeed, you
had not tasted the discipline of the rod. I saw Sister Blandina made
to clean the wash-house floor on her hands and knees because she gave
mother assistant a pert answer about some dusting she was ordered to
do. How would you like that? You found fault with your meat to-day at
table, and your aunt said nothing, only helped you to another bit. If
you had done that as a novice, you would have had no more that day,
except, perhaps, the leavings on the sisters' plates."
Philippa looked rather blank. "But I am going into a Carthusian house,"
said she.
I could not forbear laughing.
"Worse and worse. There you will get no meat at all, and only fish on
feast days. You will have no linen to mend, because you will have none
to wear, and so far from speaking back as you did to Mistress Davis,
you will not be permitted to speak at all, save in answer to a question
from your superiors."
"How do you know?"
"I heard all about it from one of our sisters, a very nice woman who
came to our house when her own was put down. She said she never spoke
during her novitiate, unless she were spoken to."
Philippa pouted and patted her foot on the floor.
"I believe you are only trying to scare me," said she.
"You may ask any one who knows," I answered. "Sister Dominica did not
know what to make of our easy ways at first, and yet our discipline was
not lax by any means."
"Children, what are you doing?" asked Mistress Davis, coming up stairs.
"'Tis time you wore abed, and asleep."
"There it goes," muttered Philippa. "Always interfering."
"Philippa came to borrow a book," said I.
"Oh, very well. There is no harm done. Good-night."
"Here is the book," said I, producing it; "only please be careful—"
For she took it in a very heedless way by one cover. "It is very dear
to me, because our mother gave it me a present from her own hand, and
there are some of her paintings in it."
Philippa instantly laid the volume on the table. "I will not take it if
you are so dreadfully afraid of it," said she. "I did not guess I was
asking such a favor. But that is always the way. One would think that
I did nothing else but spoil things. I don't want the book if you are
afraid of my spoiling it by only looking at it."
I suppose she thought I was going to urge it upon her, but she was
mistaken. My own temper was up by that time, and I quietly turned
from her, took the book and laid it away, and bidding her a short
good-night, I shut the door.
I sat a few minutes by the open casement to cool my face and also my
spirit, and then I said my prayers and went to bed. It was all saying
prayers at that time. The words never went deeper than my lips, or at
most I thought of them as a sort of charm, the repeating whereof might
propitiate some unknown power and save us from some unknown danger. I
don't say this is the case with all Roman Catholics by any means, but
I know it is with a great many. They gabble over their rosary with no
more devotion than a village child goes over the criss-cross row *, or
the pence table and from much the same motive, because they expect to
be beaten if they do not know their lesson.
* The criss-cross row is the alphabet, always preceded in the old
primers and horn books by a cross. Few people who use the word are
aware of its origin.
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